



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 






















I 






THE CHILDREN’S HOUR 


IN FIFTEEN VOLUMES 
ILLUSTRATED 

VOLUME XIII 























































































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Between the dark and the daylight, when the night is beginning to lower. 
Comes a pause in the days occupations, that is known as the Childrens Hour. 






COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 




ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 




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DEC 26 1916 


©CI.A453298 


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NOTE 


ALL rights in stories in this volume are reserved by 
the holders of the copyright. The publishers and 
others named in the subjoined list are the proprietors, 
either in their own right or as agents for the authors, of 
the stories taken from the works enumerated, of which 
the ownership is hereby acknowledged. The editor 
takes this opportunity to thank both authors and pub- 
lishers for the ready generosity with which they have 
allowed her to include these stories in “The Children’s 
Hour.” 


“Wilderness Pets,” by Edward Breck; published by 
Houghton Mifflin Company. 

“Sam Lawson’s Oldtown Fireside Stories,” by Har- 
riet Beecher Stowe; published by Houghton Mifflin 
Company. 

“Mr. Rabbit at Home,” by Joel Chandler Harris; 
published by Houghton Mifflin Company. 

“ Nights with Uncle Remus,” by Joel Chandler Harris ; 
published by Houghton Mifflin Company. 

“Brothers in Fur,” by Eliza Orne White; published 
by Houghton Mifflin Company. 

“The Fire-Fly’s Lovers,” by William Elliot Griffis; 
published by Thomas Y. Crowell Company. 

“The Jonathan Papers,” by Elisabeth Woodbridge; 
published by Houghton Mifflin Company. 


v 


NOTE 


“The Story of a Bad Boy,” by Thomas Bailey Aldrich; 
published by Houghton Mifflin Company. 

“Old Ballads in Prose,” by Eva March Tappan; pub- 
lished by Houghton Mifflin Company. 

“St. Nicholas” (“Hans the Otherwise,” by John 
Bennett; “The Rechristening of Phoebe,” by Sam- 
uel Scoville, Jr.); published by The Century Com- 
pany. 

“The Pig Brother, and Other Fables,” by Laura E. 
Richards; published by Little, Brown & Company. 

“Stories to Tell to Children,” by Sara Cone Bryant; 
published by Houghton Mifflin Company. 

“The Peterkin Papers,” by Lucretia P. Hale; pub- 
lished by Houghton Mifflin Company. 

“May Iverson — Her book,” by Elizabeth Jordan; 
published by Harper & Brothers. 

“Anne’s Terrible Good Nature,” by E. V. Lucas; 
published by The Macmillan Company. 

“The Atlantic Monthly” (“Woman’s Sphere,” by 
S. H. Kemper); published by The Atlantic Monthly 
Company. 

“Chimes from a Jester’s Bells,” by Robert J. Bur- 
dette; published by The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 

“Weatherby’s Innings,” by Ralph Henry Barbour; 
published by D. Appleton & Company. 

“Emmy Lou,” by George Madden Martin; published 
by Doubleday, Page & Company. 

“Little Citizens,” by Myra Kelly; published by 
Doubleday, Page & Company. 

“Sonny,” by Ruth McEnery Stuart; published by 
The Century Company. 

vi 


NOTE 

“The Bantam,” by Brewer Corcoran; published by 
Harper & Brothers. 

“Harper’s Round Table” (“The Comedy of the 
Herr Professor,” by Ida Keniston) ; published by Har- 
per & Brothers. 

“Smith College Stories,” by Josephine Dodge Daskam; 
published by Charles Scribner’s Sons. 

“Ezekiel,” by Lucy Pratt; published by Houghton 
Mifflin Company. 

“ Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” by Harriet Beecher Stowe ; 
published by Houghton Mifflin Company. 

“Colonel Carter of Cartersville,” by F. Hopkinson 
Smith; published by Houghton Mifflin Company. 

“More Jonathan Papers,” by Elisabeth Woodbridge; 
published by Houghton Mifflin Company. 

“Stories and Sketches for the Young,” by Harriet 
Beecher Stowe; published by Houghton Mifflin Com- 
pany. 

“The Misadventures of Three Good Boys,” by Henry 
A. Shute; published by Houghton Mifflin Company. 

“Rebecca of Sunny brook Farm,” by Kate Douglas 
Wiggin; published by Houghton Mifflin Company. 

“ Rudder Grange,” by Frank R. Stockton; published 
by Charles Scribner’s Sons. 





CONTENTS 


TO THE CHILDREN 

THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

High Jinks of the Cubs Edward Breck 

The Minister’s Horse Harriet Beecher Stowe 

Brother Wolf’s Two Big Dinners Joel Chandler Harris 
Brother Rabbit’s Astonishing Prank Joel Chandler Harris 
The Taking of the Furbush-Tailbys . Eliza Orne White 
The Travels of the Two Frogs . . William Elliot Griffis 
Sunday Morning and the Cow . . . Elisabeth Woodbridge 
A Dissertation upon Roast Pig .... Charles Lamb 
A Forenoon with Budge and Toddie . . John Habberton 

I become an R. M. C Thomas Bailey Aldrich 

How we astonished the Rivermouthians 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich 
The Barring of the Door .... Eva March Tappan 
The King and the Miller of Mansfield 

Eva March Tappan 

The False Knight Eva March Tappan 

Hans the Otherwise John Bennett 

The Three Remarks Laura E. Richards 

Epaminondas and his Auntie .... Sara Cone Bryant 
The Lady who put Salt in her Coffee Lucretia P. Hale 
Mr. Partridge sees “ Hamlet ” . . . . Henry Fielding 

How Kittie helped George Elizabeth Jordan 

The Anti-Burglars E. V. Lucas 

The Pickwick Club go shooting .... Charles Dickens 

The Pickwick Club on the Ice Charles Dickens 

Woman’s Sphere S. H. Kemper 

Rollo Learning to Play Robert J. Burdette 

How Anthony raised Money for the Ball Team 

Ralph Henry Barbour 
The Rechristening of Phcebe . . . Samuel Scoville, Jr. 


xiii 

3 

13 

22 

28 

33 

41 

47 

55 

66 

79 

87 

103 

109 

125 

129 

141 

150 

154 

160 

167 

176 

189 

199 

209 

220 

230 

238 


IX 


CONTENTS 

The Visiting Gentleman at School George Madden Martin 

The New Monitor Myra Kelly 

Sonny’s Diploma Ruth McEnery Stuart 

The Story of the Prunes Brewer Corcoran 

The Comedy of the Herr Professor . . . Ida Keniston 
Miss Biddle of Bryn Mawr . . Josephine Bodge Basham 
ELandy Andy goes to the Post Office . . Samuel Lover 

The Loan of a Gridiron Samuel Lover 

Ezekiel’s Race with the Bell Lucy Pratt 

“A Book for Mothers” Lucy Pratt 

Miss Ophelia and Topsy Harriet Beecher Stowe 

Chad F. Hopkinson Smith 

The Searchings of Jonathan . . . Elisabeth Woodbridge 
The Attack on the Minister’s Melon Patch 

Harriet Beecher Stowe 
The Minister’s Housekeeper . . Harriet Beecher Stowe 
“Nellie” at the County Fair .... Henry A. Shute 

Rebecca’s Journey Kate Bouglas Wiggin 

Rebecca invites Company .... Kate Bouglas Wiggin 
An Unwilling Guest Frank B. Stockton 


250 

267 

286 

299 

308 

320 

332 

345 

356 

369 

383 

406 

413 

430 

439 

457 

483 

501 

519 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


“ I HOPE WE HAVE a long, long ways to GO ” Colored Frontispiece 

From a drawing by F. C. Yohn 

Can’t see what she finds in that Jug 

From a photograph by Edward Brock 6 

Uncle Remus From a drawing by A. B Frost 28 

Brother Rabbit’s Astonishing Prank 

From a drawing by F. S. Church 32 

The Initiation From a drawing by A. B. Frost 82 

Sailor Ben’s Cabin . . . From a drawing by A. B. Frost 90 

The Peterkins From a drawing 154 

“What’s the matter with the dogs’ legs?” whispered 

Mr. Winkle .... From a drawing by F. O. C. Barley 194 

Mr. Pickwick slides . From a drawing by Hablot K. Browne 204 

Topsy From a drawing by E. W. Kemble 384 

Wake-up Robinson behind Old Sheepskin 

From a drawing by Sears Gallagher 478 



TO THE CHILDREN 


T HERE is an old saying, “A little nonsense now and 
then is relished by the best of men”; and this is 
perfectly true, but the nonsense ought to be “best” 
as well as the men. So long as people are not all alike, 
some folk will always be amused by stories that do not 
seem at all funny to other folk, but there is plenty of 
good clean fun to suit every taste, and there are more 
kinds of fun than you can count. “Epaminondas and 
his Auntie” is funny because the small boy follows his 
mother’s advice most obediently, but always applies 
it to the wrong thing. “Woman’s Sphere” is funny 
because “sphere” has two meanings and both of them 
are brought out most amusingly in the story. “The 
Travels of the Two Frogs” is funny because, while 
you know very well that the joke is really on the frogs, 
they do not know it and are satisfied and happy in 
their mistake. 

In stories as well as in real life, nothing is funny that 
depends upon any one’s unhappiness or misfortune. A 
boy who torments a helpless little animal or a child 
smaller than himself is not doing anything funny; he 
is merely proving himself to be a coward, for he would 
run as fast as his feet would carry him if the child or the 
little animal should suddenly become as big and strong 
as he. So in a story there is no wit in trying to make fun 
of any one’s misfortunes. 

xiii 


TO THE CHILDREN 


As a general thing, a funny story must have a surprise 
of some sort. If the joke has seemed to be played on the 
wrong person, it is very satisfactory to have it turned 
upon the right one, as in “The Attack on the Minis- 
ter’s Melon Patch” and “The Comedy of the Herr Pro- 
fessor,” for we do like to see justice done, even in a 
story, especially if it is done in an entertaining fashion. 

There is a tale of a little girl who had been carefully 
taught never to make a remark about any one without 
first asking herself these three questions: Is it true? Is 
it kind? Is it necessary? She was so obedient that she 
passed most of her time in silence, considering whether 
what she had thought of saying would pass the three 
tests. Now it would not be a remarkably good plan to 
sit and meditate on a story before you decided whether 
to laugh at it or not; but it would do no harm to think 
over once in a while the stories that strike you as most 
amusing and see what it is that makes them seem funny. 

The habit of seeing the funny side of things is a 
very good one. Like a friend, it “ halves our griefs and 
doubles our joys.” Therefore, — cultivate it all you 
can. A wise man once said that people were known by 
what they laughed at. Therefore, — be careful. 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


















HIGH JINKS OF THE CUBS 

By Edward Breck 

TT was a very fortunate thing for Uncle Ned that, as 
* an old woodsman, he was accustomed to early ris- 
ing; otherwise it would have gone hard with his “beauty 
sleep”; for just above his head, on the roof, roosted 
Lige, who began walking round the roof at gray dawn, 
uttering his long-drawn-out “Qua-a-ahk!” which was 
always a signal for Jim’s answering, “Hock! Hock!” 
or his appealing, “Ah-ah!” In a trice there was a 
chorus from the veranda of “Kwee-a! kwee-a!” 
which notified the sleeper that certain gulls were 
hungry; and a snarl or two from the bear house would 
cause Yankee, who slept at the foot of Uncle Ned’s 
bed, to rouse herself with a sleepy “Meow!” for a good- 
morning. 

At first Mr. Buckshaw used to harden his heart and 
take his dip in the lake before attending to the wants 
of his many pets; but as they grew older they raised 
such a din that he was afraid the whole village would be 
awakened, so that all the bird-kind were fed as soon as 
he got up, the rest being looked out for when he was 
dressed and before taking his own breakfast. 

But early morning did not always pass as peacefully 
as this. Sukey’s proneness to find or make holes in the 
netting of the bear house has already been mentioned, 
3 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


and this ingenuity of hers several times caused Uncle 
Ned to hop out of bed earlier and in a far livelier fashion 
than usual. The back door always stood ajar, and, 
though there was a heavy weight against it, Sukey’s 
strength was sufficient to push this aside, and Uncle Ned 
would be awakened by an angry yell from Yank and a 
snorting “Woof!” from the cub, or, more likely, the 
smash of some bowl or platter as it was dashed to pieces 
on the floor. Finally, a short chain was used to secure 
the door, and the master of the house felt reasonably 
secure; but that bear was incorrigible. The very next 
day she succeeded in scaling the roof by means of a 
young tree, and Uncle Ned was aroused by a most dis- 
cordant duet of raven squawks and growls and “woofs.” 
Before he could gather his sleepy senses there was a 
curious scratching in the chimney, a heavy fall into the 
fireplace, fortunately without a fire in it, and the next 
moment a very filthy and frightened bear cub rushed 
out into the room, made a couple of panicky turns, and, 
with a jump, landed in Uncle Ned’s very bed! 

In an instant Yankee threw herself on the cub, and 
such was the savage and perplexing mixup of claws 
and teeth for a minute that the poor man could do 
nothing but pull the clothes over his head and wait for 
victory to declare itself for one side or the other. This 
it speedily did, and the battle now turned into an 
utter rout, with Sukey careering for her life round the 
cabin and over tables and chairs, and Yank hard on 
top of her, cuffing her like mad. In despair Uncle Ned 
rushed to the door and threw it open, and Sukey was 
quick to take advantage of this avenue of escape. The 
4 


HIGH JINKS OF THE CUBS 

cabin looked as if an infant tornado had been amusing 
itself there. The inkstand was overturned and Uncle 
Ned’s papers all smeared and torn; the breakfast 
table, with its neat plates and cups all set for breakfast, 
was a wreck; the big bowl of milk for Yankee and 
Nigghy and the cubs themselves, lay in pieces on the 
floor, with its contents trickling about in various direc- 
tions; and over all was a layer of ashes that reminded 
one of a house in Pompeii after an eruption of Vesuvius. 
There is no use recording what Uncle Ned said on this 
occasion, but he certainly rivaled Lige in eloquence, 
and his words were easier to understand. 

But this was but an incident in Sukey’s joyous career. 
Not long afterwards, when the cabin had been left 
alone for a couple of hours, both bears succeeded in 
getting out of the bear house, and an open window in 
the cabin was more than an invitation. When Uncle 
Ned and his friends came home they saw one very un- 
kempt-looking bear licking itself on the veranda, and 
perceived, as it scampered away guiltily, a thin streak 
of something dark flowing from it as it fled. Upon ex- 
amination Uncle cried, “Molasses, as I’m a sinner!” 
The next moment out popped the second bear through 
the window and scurried under the cabin. With sinking 
heart Uncle Ned threw open the door, and the full ex- 
tent of the “Sack of Camp Buckshaw” was exposed to 
view. Books, papers, pieces of crockery, cartridges, 
fishing tackle, clothes, firewood, medicine bottles with 
the corks out, pots and plates, in fact pretty much 
everything that the cabin held, was strewn upon the 
floor in disorder, and over all and around all and in all 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

were jam and molasses, molasses and jam, strawberry 
jam! On a high shelf Uncle Ned had kept a two-quart 
bottle of this, his favorite sweet, and those bears — how, 
goodness knows — had got at it and knocked it to the 
floor. Then they had pulled the cork out of the mo- 
lasses jug and overturned that. The result was unique, 
unspeakable. There was not a chair or a table that 
was not smeared with the sticky combination; the 
lounge and all its cushions were covered with it, and 
those cubs had even wormed their way in between the 
sheets of Uncle Ned’s bed, the sight of which would 
have sent a neat housewife to the insane asylum. 

In the midst of the awful wreck Uncle Ned stood, 
drawing his breath in gulps. “Great — ” he gasped, 
but the word died on his lips. For what was the use of 
language? There was none that could do even faint jus- 
tice either to the appearance of that room or to his own 
emotions. It was not long, of course, before the sense 
of humor overmastered all others; but, after the good 
long laugh with which he and the rest relieved their 
feelings, Uncle Ned remarked grimly, “I kind o’ be- 
lieve those cubs are gettin’ a little too grown-up for this 
quiet neighborhood!” 

A week later, and he was sure of it. For a few days 
the cubs seemed chastened and contrite, though it 
was but the calm before the storm. Butter would n’t 
melt in Sukey’s mouth as she looked up at her master 
out of those wicked little bloodshot eyes. She would 
even try to play with Yankee; but the cat was very 
much on her dignity, and a quick right and left that 
made Sukey howl with pain was her reward. One 
6 








. 

































































■ 














HIGH JINKS OF THE CUBS 

morning Yank showed a trait that is common in dogs 
but very rare in cats, namely, taking the master’s part 
in a scuffle. Sukey had committed some minor sin and 
Uncle Ned was in full chase of her for purposes of pun- 
ishment, when out of the shed rushed Yankee, passed 
her master, caught up with the fleeing cub, which 
she proceeded to cuff soundly until it ran under the 
house. 

Occasionally the cubs would make expeditions to the 
neighboring cabins, which often resulted in wild panics 
on the part of the more timid ladies and the small chil- 
dren, who forgot that the bears were still more terror- 
struck than they. A scream would send the cubs under 
some cabin, where their presence would frighten the 
inmates out of their wits ; and it often required a lot of 
coaxing and show of food before the bears would con- 
sent to come out. 

One good turn they did the little community, which 
bore the character rather of a private country club 
than the usual hotel with cabin annexes. An extremely 
objectionable lady of very vast proportions and a ten- 
dency to gossip had grown to be a nuisance to the other 
guests, but there seemed to be no way of getting rid of 
her. 

“I’ll fix her!” said Uncle Ned; and one day he let 
the cubs loose about seven o’clock in the morning on 
the lady’s veranda. As the door was ajar, the cubs, al- 
ways curious by nature, lost no time in entering. The 
inevitable explosion, awaited by a small but select com- 
pany concealed near by, soon followed, the shrieks of the 
affrighted lady reaching to the hotel kitchen, and caus- 
7 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


ing the maids to rush out to see what the matter was. 
In the end nobody was hurt, but the fat lady left town 
two days afterward. 

Many of Uncle Ned’s pets had their Waterloos. We 
have seen that, in Pompey’s case, it was a squash pie. 
In that of Rube and Sukey it was education, and relig- 
ious education at that. You shall see. 

About a mile up the road from the hotel stood the 
little village church, in which, during summer, services 
were held twice a month by a very good but very old- 
school clergyman named Mr. Skinner, who took the 
Scriptures as he found them and made no compromise 
with what he called the “milk-and-water way of preach- 
ing” of some of his sacred calling. His rule over his 
flock was based more upon threats and awful examples 
than upon persuasion. One of his physical features was 
a very bald head, about which some of the younger 
members of his congregation were wont to crack jokes, 
several of which, coming to the worthy man’s ear, 
aroused his wrath. One afternoon in late August the 
Sunday-School class was listening patiently to a dis- 
course by the Rev. Mr. Skinner on the sin of irreverence 
and disrespect toward one’s elders, and the terrible 
things that were sure to happen to them unless they 
mended their ways. Even the elder children began to 
feel rather nervous and uncomfortable, as the direful 
programme was unrolled, while the eyes of the little 
girls and boys fairly stuck out of their heads in terror. 

“Do you know what once happened to children for 
mocking a good man who had had the misfortune to 
lose some of his natural hair?” roared Mr. Skinner. 

8 


HIGH JINKS OF THE CUBS 

“Listen, for I tell you it may happen again! Hear 
what is told of it in the Second Book of Kings! ‘And 
he [that was Elisha] went up from thence unto Bethel : 
and as he was going up by the way, there came forth 
little children out of the city, and mocked him, and said 
unto him, Go up, thou bald head. And he turned back, 
and looked on them, and cursed them in the name of the 
Lord. And there came forth two she bears out of the 
woods, and tare forty and two children of them ! ’ Do 
you hear what the Good Book says? Two she bears, 
with open mouths and terrible fangs, fell upon these 
unregenerate children and tore them limb from limb! 
And that may happen again, boys and girls! Right 
here in Milford and now, at this instant ! For the ways 
of the Lord are the same as of old, and bears there are 
in the woods, yes, and plenty of them, and they are 
savage and cruel and terrible, and I say unto you — ” 

Just here a wild scream interrupted the good man, 
followed by shrieks and cries of terror, the oversetting 
of benches, and a wild scramble of the panic-stricken 
children; for down the single center aisle rushed head- 
long first one bear, a real bear, and then another! 
Bringing up suddenly against the high platform on 
which stood Mr. Skinner at the reading desk, Rube and 
Sukey (for it is needless to say it was they who repre- 
sented on this occasion the wrath of the Lord) made 
frantic efforts to scale the platform, and the next mo- 
ment they were upon it, while the shrieking children 
made a wild rush for the church door. 

Mr. Skinner, who was very near-sighted, was quite 
bewildered by this extraordinary scene, and his first 
9 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

intimation of the real state of affairs came with a shock 
as Sukey made a jump for his legs, possibly, in her fright, 
taking them for a tree. A second before, at the sight of 
the commotion and hearing the cries of “Bears! Bears!” 
the reverend gentleman had entertained a sudden no- 
tion that his wonderful eloquence had wrought this 
apparent miracle; but the moment he felt the well- 
grown cub’s weight on his leg, and the sharpness of 
her claws through his thin trousers, a cry of agonized 
fear came from his lips, and, grasping the oak reading 
desk, he frantically endeavored to climb upon it, at 
the same time trying to shake off the cub. The sudden- 
ness and violence of his movements freed him from the 
bear, and the next moment he was sitting cross-legged 
on top of the desk, in which safe but ridiculous position 
he was found half a minute later by Uncle Ned and 
the boys, who, having discovered the escape of the 
cubs, had followed them to the church, arriving just 
too late to prevent their entrance. In fact, it was prob- 
ably the closeness of the chase that caused the cubs to 
run in through the open door. 

It took only a short time to corner the bears and se- 
cure them with collars and chains, while Mr. Skinner 
was helped down from his perch on the reading desk 
and the children assured that there was no danger to 
be feared from the little animals, who were much more 
frightened than they. The result was the breaking up 
of the Sunday-School class for that day, and a grand 
procession of bears and children back to Camp Buck- 
shaw. Uncle Ned had apologized hastily to Mr. Skinner, 
but did not wait to hear that gentleman’s rejoinder. 

10 


HIGH JINKS OF THE CUBS 

The very next day Charlie Munro might have been 
seen constructing in his barn a large wooden box, di- 
vided into two compartments, with stout slats cover- 
ing one side. It was nothing less than the private car 
of Reuben and Sukey Buckshaw, in which they were to 
“go south for the winter,” namely, to a certain zoolog- 
ical garden in New England, the manager of which was 
anxious to entertain them. 

The morning of their departure the camp was 
aroused early, for it was thought best to get the cubs 
past the cabins before the guests were up, as the affair 
of the church (which the cubs’ enemies had described 
as a “ferocious attack on the minister”) and other 
little incidents had rendered them somewhat unpopular 
among certain people who, as Uncle Ned said, had been 
brought up to tremble at the mere word bear, and to 
believe that they lived mostly on man’s flesh. 

So it was but little after sunrise that the cubs were 
carried up to the barn in the arms of Uncle Ned and 
Jack. The latter had Rube, who was fairly quiet; but 
Sukey, far more high-strung and powerful, gave the 
woodsman a hard tussle, for he had neglected to put 
on his gloves. Frightened at a dog that came bounding 
out, Sukey struggled with such desperation that she 
tore herself almost out of her master’s arms, and once 
bit him savagely in the hand. In passing the last pri- 
vate cabin before reaching the barn, she made a great 
spring, and, before Uncle Ned could prevent, slipped 
out of his arms and dashed through the cabin door, 
which was slightly ajar. Uncle Ned made a regular 
football “flying tackle,” and grabbed Miss Sukey on 
11 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


the very threshold, but not before she had been seen 
by some of the inmates, causing a great slamming of 
doors and screams of terror from the little folks. 

Five minutes afterwards both cubs were securely 
fastened in their traveling box, and the last seen of 
them, as they were driven away, was Sukey, standing 
up and looking through the slats with what Uncle Ned 
always declared was an expression of deep sadness. 


THE MINISTER’S HORSE 

By Harriet Beecher Stowe 



IOLKS will cheat about hosses when they won’t 


J- about ’most nothin’ else.” And Sam leaned back 
on his cold forge, now empty of coal, and seemed to 
deliver himself to a mournful train of general reflec- 
tion. “Yes, hosses does seem to be sort o’ unregenerate 
critters,” he broke out; “there’s suthin’ about hosses 
that deceives the very elect. The best o’ folks gets 
tripped up when they come to deal in hosses.” 

“Why, Sam, is there anything bad in horses?” we 
interjected timidly. 

“ ’T ain’t the hosses, boys,” said Sam with solemnity. 
“The hosses is all right enough! Hosses is scriptural 
animals. Elijah went up to heaven in a chari’t with 
hosses: and then all them lots o’ hosses in the Ravela- 
tions — black and white and red, and all sorts o’ colors. 
That ’ere shows hosses goes to heaven; but it’s more’n 
the folks that hev ’em is likely to, ef they don’t look out. 

“Ministers, now,” continued Sam in a soliloquizing 
vein — “folks allers thinks it’s suthin’ sort o’ shaky in a 
minister to hev hosses — sure to get ’em into trouble. 
There was old Parson Williams of North Billriky got 
into a dreadful mess about a hoss. He wa’n’t to blame, 
neither; but he got into the dreffulest scrape you ever 
heard on — come nigh to unsettlin’ him.” 


13 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“0 Sam! tell us all about it,” we boys shouted, de- 
lighted with the prospect of a story. 

“Wal, wait now till I get off this critter’s shoes, and 
we’ll take him up to pastur’, and then we can kind o’ 
set by the river and fish. Hepsy wanted a mess o’ fish 
for supper, and I was cariatin’ to git some for her. You 
boys go and be diggin’ bait, and git yer lines.” 

And so, as we were sitting tranquilly beside the 
Charles River, watching our lines, Sam’s narrative 
began: — 

“Ye see, boys, Parson Williams — he’s dead now, 
but when I was a boy he was one of the gret men round 
here. He writ books. He writ a book on the millennium 
(I’ve got that ’ere book now); and he was a smart 
preacher. Folks said he had invitations to settle in 
Boston, and there ain’t no doubt he might ’a’ hed a 
Boston parish ef he’d ben a mind ter take it; but he’s 
got a good settlement and a handsome farm in North 
Billriky, and did n’t care to move : thought, I s’pose, 
that ’t was better to be number one in a little place 
than number two in a big un. Anyway, he carried all 
before him where he was. 

“Parson Williams was a tall, straight, personable 
man; come of good family — father and grand’ther 
before him all ministers. He was putty up-and-down, 
and commandin’ in his ways, and things had to go 
putty much as he said. He was a good deal sot by, 
Parson Williams was, and his wife was a Derby — one 
o’ them rich Salem Derbys — and brought him a lot o’ 
money; and so they lived putty easy and comfort- 
able so fur’s this world’s goods goes. Wal, now, the 
14 


THE MINISTER’S HORSE 


parson wa’n’t reely what you call worldly minded; but 
then he was one o’ them folks that knows what ’ s good 
in temporals as well as sperituals, and allers liked to 
hev the best that there was goin’; and he allers had an 
eye to a good hoss. 

“Now, there was Parson Adams and Parson Scran- 
ton, and most of the other ministers : they did n’t know 
and didn’t care what hoss they had; jest jogged 
round with these ’ere poundin’, pot-bellied, sleepy 
critters that ministers mostly hes — good enough to 
crawl round to fun’rals and ministers’ meetin’s and 
associations and sich; but Parson Williams, he allers 
would hev a hoss as was a hoss. He looked out for 
blood; and when these ’ere Vermont fellers would come 
down with a drove, the parson, he hed his eyes open, 
and knew what was what. Could n’t none of ’em cheat 
him on hoss flesh. And so one time when Zach Buel 
was down with a drove, the doctor, he bought the 
best hoss in the lot. Zach said he never see a parson 
afore that he could n’t cheat; but he said the doctor reely 
knew as much as he did, and got the very one he ’d meant 
to ’a’ kept for himself. 

“This ’ere hoss was a peeler, I’ll tell you! They ’s 
called him Tamerlane, from some heathen feller or 
other: the boys called him Tam, for short. Tam was a 
gret character. All the fellers for miles round knew the 
doctor’s Tam, and used to come clear over from the 
other parishes to see him. 

“Wal, this ’ere sot up Cuff’s back high, I tell you! 
Cuff was the doctor’s nigger man, and he was nat’lly a 
drefful proud critter. The way he would swell and strut 
15 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

and brag about the doctor and his folks and his things ! 
The doctor used to give Cuff his cast-off clothes; and 
Cuff would prance round in ’em, and seem to think he was 
a doctor of divinity himself, and had the charge of all 
natur’. 

“Wal, Cuff, he reely made an idol o’ that ’ere hoss 
— a reg’lar graven image — and bowed down and wor- 
shiped him. He did n’t think nothin’ was too good 
for him. He washed and brushed and curried him, and 
rubbed him down till he shone like a lady’s satin dress; 
and he took pride in ridin’ and drivin’ him, ’cause it was 
what the doctor would n’t let nobody else do but him- 
self. You see, Tam wa’n’t no lady’s hoss. Miss Wil- 
liams was ’fraid as death of him; and the parson, he 
hed to git her a sort o’ low-sperited critter that she 
could drive herself. But he liked to drive Tam; and 
he liked to go round the country on his back, and a fine 
figure of a man he was on him too. He did n’t let nobody 
else back him, or handle the reins, but Cuff; and Cuff 
was drefful set up about it, and he swelled and bragged 
about that ’ere hoss all round the country. Nobody 
could n’t put in a word ’bout any other hoss, without 
Cuff’s feathers would be all up, stiff as a tom-turkey’s 
tail; and that’s how Cuff got the doctor into trouble. 

“ Ye see, there nat’lly was others that thought they ’d 
got horses, and did n’t want to be crowed over. There 
was Bill Atkins out to the west parish, and Ike Sanders, 
that kep’ a stable up to Pequot Holler: they was down 
a-lookin’ at the parson’s hoss, and a-bettin’ on their’n, 
and a-darin’ Cuff to race with ’em. 

“ Wal, Cuff, he could n’t stan’ it, and when the doc- 
16 


THE MINISTER’S HORSE 


tor’s back was turned, he’d be off on the sly, and they’d 
hev their race; and Tam, he beat ’em all. Tam, ye see, 
boys, was a hoss that could n’t and would n’t hev a 
hoss ahead of him — he jest would n't! Ef he dropped 
down dead in his tracks the next minit, he would be 
ahead; and he allers got ahead. And so his name got 
up, and fellers kep’ cornin’ to try their horses; and 
Cuff ’d take Tam out to race with fust one and then 
another till this ’ere got to be a reg’lar thing, and 
begun to be talked about. 

“Folks sort o’ wondered if the doctor knew; but Cuff 
was sly as a weasel, and allers had a story ready for 
every turn. Cuff was one of them fellers that could 
talk a bird off a bush — master hand he was to slick 
things over! 

“ There was folks as said they believed the doctor was 
knowin’ to it, and that he felt a sort o’ carnal pride sech 
as a minister ought n’t fer to hev, and so shet his eyes 
to what was a-goin’ on. Aunt Sally Nickerson said she 
was sure on ’t. ’T was all talked over down to old Miss 
Bummiger’s fun’ral, and Aunt Sally, she said the 
church ought to look into ’t. But everybody knew Aunt 
Sally: she was allers watchin’ for folks’ haltin’s, and 
settin’ on herself to jedge her neighbors. 

“ Wal, I never believed nothin’ agin Parson Williams: 
it was all Cuff’s contrivances. But the fact was, the 
fellers all got their blood up, and there was hoss-racin’ 
in all the parishes; and it got so they’d even race 
hosses a Sunday. 

“ Wal, of course they never got the doctor’s hoss out 
a Sunday. Cuff would n’t’a’ durst to do that. He was 
17 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


allers there in church, setthT up in the doctor’s clothes, 
rollin’ up his eyes, and lookin’ as pious as ef he never 
thought o’ racin’ hosses. He was an awful solemn- 
lookin’ nigger in church, Cuff was. 

“But there was a lot o’ them fellers up to Pequot 
Holler — Bill Atkins, and Ike Sanders, and Tom 
Peters, and them Hokum boys — used to go out arter 
meetin’ Sunday arternoon, and race hosses. Ye see, 
it was jest close to the State-line, and, if the s’lectmen was 
to come down on ’em, they could jest whip over the 
line, and they could n’t take ’em. 

“ Wal, it got to be a gret scandal. The fellers talked 
about it up to the tavern, and the deacons and the 
tithingman, they took it up and went to Parson Wil- 
liams about it; and the parson he told ’em jest to keep 
still, not let the fellers know that they was bein’ 
watched, and next Sunday he and the tithingman and 
the constable, they’d ride over, and catch ’em in the 
very act. 

“So next Sunday arternoon Parson Williams and 
Deacon Popkins and Ben Bradley (he was constable 
that year), they got on their hosses, and rode over to 
Pequot Holler. The doctor’s blood was up, and he 
meant to come down on ’em strong; for that was his 
way of doin’ in his parish. And they was in a sort o’ 
day-o’-jedgment frame o’ mind, and jogged along 
solemn as a hearse, till, come to rise the hill above the 
holler, they see three or four fellers with their hosses 
gittin’ ready to race; and the parson, says he, ‘Let ’s 
come on quiet, and get behind these bushes, and we’ll 
see what they ’re up to, and catch ’em in the act.’ 


THE MINISTER’S HORSE 


“But the mischief on ’t was, that Ike Sanders see ’em 
cornin’, and he knowed Tam in a minit — Ike knowed 
Tam of old — and he jest tipped the wink to the rest. 
‘Wait, boys,’ says he: ‘let ’em git close up, and then 
I’ll give the word, and the doctor’s hoss will be racin’ 
ahead like thunder.’ 

“Wal, so the doctor and his folks, they drew up 
behind the bushes, and stood there innocent as could be, 
and saw ’em gittin’ ready to start. Tam, he begun to 
snuffle and paw; but the doctor never mistrusted what 
he was up to till Ike sung out, ‘Go it, boys!’ and the 
hosses all started, when, sure as you live, boys, Tam 
gave one fly, and was over the bushes, and in among 
’em, goin’ it like chain-lightnin’ ahead of ’em all. 

“Deacon Popkins and Ben Bradley jest stood and 
held their breath to see ’em all goin’ it so like thunder; 
and the doctor, he was took so sudden it was all he 
could do to jest hold on anyway: so away he went, 
and trees and bushes and fences streaked by him like 
ribbins. His hat flew off behind him, and his wig arter, 
and got catched in a barberry bush; but he could n’t 
stop to think o’ them. He jest leaned down, and caught 
Tam round the neck, and held on for dear life till they 
come to the stoppin’ place. 

“Wal, Tam was ahead of them all, sure enough, and 
was snortin’ and snufflin’ as if he ’d got the very old 
boy in him, and was up to racin’ some more on the 
spot. 

“That ’ere Ike Sanders was the impudentest feller 
that ever you see, and he roared and hawhawed at the 
doctor. ‘Good for you, parson!’ says he. ‘You beat us 
19 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

all holler,’ says he. ‘Takes a parson for that, don’t 
it, boys?’ he said. And then he and Ike and Tom, and 
the two Hokum boys, they jest roared and danced round 
like wild critters. Wal, now, only think on ’t, boys, 
what a situation that ’ere was for a minister — a man 
that had come out with the best of motives to put a 
stop to Sabbath-breakin’ ! There he was all rumpled 
up and dusty, and his wig hangin* in the bushes, and 
these ’ere ingodly fellers gettin’ the laugh on him, and 
all acause o’ that ’ere hoss. There’s times, boys, when 
ministers must be tempted to swear if there ain’t pre- 
ventin’ grace, and this was one o’ them times to Parson 
Williams. They say he got red in the face, and looked 
as if he should bust, but he did n’t say nothin’ : he 
scorned to answer. The sons o’ Zeruiah was too hard for 
him, and he let ’em hev their say. But when they’d 
got through, and Ben had brought him his hat and wig, 
and brushed and settled him again, the parson, he says, 
‘Well, boys, ye’ve had your say and your laugh; but 
I warn you now I won’t have this thing going on here 
any more,* says he: ‘so mind yourselves.* 

“Wal, the boys see that the doctor’s blood was up, 
and they rode off pretty quiet; and I believe they 
never raced no more in that spot. 

“But there ain’t no tellin’ the talk this ’ere thing 
made. Folks will talk, you know; and there wa’n’t a 
house in all Billricky, nor in the south parish nor center, 
where it wa’n’t had over and discussed. There was 
the deacon, and Ben Bradley was there, to witness and 
show jest how the thing was, and that the doctor was 
jest in the way of his duty; but folks said it made a gret 
20 


THE MINISTER’S HORSE 


scandal; that a minister had n’t no business to hev that 
kind o’ hoss, and that he’d give the enemy occasion to 
speak reproachfully. It reely did seem as if Tam’s sins 
was imputed to the doctor; and folks said he ought to 
sell Tam right away, and get a sober minister’s hoss. 

“But others said it was Cuff that had got Tam into 
bad ways, and they do say that Cuff had to catch it 
pretty lively when the doctor come to settle with him. 
Cuff thought his time had come, sure enough, and was 
so scairt that he turned blacker ’n ever: he got enough 
to cure him of hoss-racin’ for one while. But Cuff got 
over it arter a while, and so did the doctor. There ain’t 
nothin’ lasts forever! Wait long enough, and ’most 
everything blows over. So it turned out about the 
doctor. There was a rumpus and a fuss, and folks 
talked and talked, and advised; everybody had their 
say: but the doctor kep’ right straight on, and kep’ his 
hoss all the same. 

“The ministers, they took it up in the association; 
but, come to tell the story, it sot ’em all a-laughin*, so 
they could n’t be very hard on the doctor. 

“The doctor felt sort o’ streaked at first when they 
told the story on him; he did n’t jest like it: but he got 
used to it, and finally, when he was twitted on ’t, he ’d 
sort o’ smile, and say, ‘Anyway, Tam beat ’em; that’s 
one comfort.’ ” 


BROTHER WOLF’S TWO BIG 
DINNERS 

By Joel Chandler Harris 

M R. RABBIT closed his eyes and rubbed his nose, 
and then began : — 

“Once upon a time, when Brother Fox and myself 
were living on pretty good terms with each other, we re- 
ceived an invitation to attend a barbecue that Brother 
Wolf was going to give on the following Saturday. The 
next day we received an invitation to a barbecue that 
Brother Bear was going to give on the same Saturday. 

“ I made up my mind at once to go to Brother Bear’s 
barbecue, because I knew he would have fresh roasting 
ears, and if there ’s anything I like better than another, 
it is fresh roasting ears. I asked Brother Fox whether 
he was going to Brother Bear’s barbecue or to Brother 
Wolf’s, but he shook his head. He said he had n’t 
made up his mind. I just asked him out of idle curios- 
ity, for I did n’t care whether he went or whether he 
stayed. 

“I went about my work as usual. Cold weather was 
coming on, and I wanted to get my crops in before the 
big freeze came. But I noticed that Brother Fox was 
mighty restless in his mind. He did n’t do a stroke of 
work. He’d sit down and then he’d get up; he’d stand 
still and look up in the tops of the trees, and then he ’d 
22 


BROTHER WOLF’S TWO BIG DINNERS 

walk back and forth with his hands behind him and 
look down at the ground. 

“I says to him, says I, ‘I hope you are not sick, 
Brother Fox.’ 

“Says he, ‘Oh, no, Brother Rabbit; I never felt 
better in my life.* 

“I says to him, says I, ‘I hope money matters are 
not troubling you.’ 

“ Says he , 4 Oh, no, Brother Rabbit, money was never 
easier with me than it is this season.’ 

“ I says to him, says I, ‘ I hope I ’ll have the pleasure 
of your company to the barbecue to-morrow.’ 

“Says he, ‘I can’t tell, Brother Rabbit; I can’t tell. 
I have n’t made up my mind.' I may go to the one, or 
I may go to the other; but which it will be, I can’t tell 
you to save my life.’ 

“As the next day was Saturday, I was up bright and 
early. I dug my goobers and spread them out to dry 
in the sun, and then, ten o’clock, as near as I could 
judge, I started out to the barbecue. Brother Wolf 
lived near the river, and Brother Bear lived right on 
the river, a mile or two below Brother Wolf’s. The 
big road, that passed near where Brother Fox and I 
lived, led in the direction of the river for about three 
miles, and then it forked, one prong going to Brother 
Wolf’s house, and the other prong going to Brother 
Bear’s house. 

“Well, when I came to the forks of the road, who 
should I see there but old Brother Fox. I stopped before 
he saw me, and watched him. He went a little way down 
one road, and licked his chops; then he came back 
23 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

and went a little way down the other road, and licked 
his chops. 

‘‘Not choosing to be late, I showed myself and passed 
the time of day with Brother Fox. I said, says I, that 
if he was going to Brother Bear’s barbecue, I’d be 
glad to have his company. But he said, says he, that 
he would n’t keep me waiting. He had just come down 
to the forks of the road to see if that would help him 
to make up his mind. I told him I was mighty sorry 
to miss his company and his conversation, and then I 
tipped my hat and took my cane from under my arm 
and went down the road that led to Brother Bear’s 
house.” 

Here Mr. Rabbit paused, straightened himself up a 
little, and looked at the children. Then he continued: — 

“I reckon you all never stood on the top of a hill 
three quarters of a mile from the smoking pits and got 
a whiff or two of the barbecue?” 

“I is! I is!” exclaimed Drusilla. “ Don’t talk! I 
wish I had some right now.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Rabbit, “I got a whiff of it and I 
was truly glad I had come — truly glad. It was a fine 
barbecue, too. There was lamb, and kid, and shote, all 
cooked to a turn and well seasoned, and then there was 
the hash made out of the giblets. I ’ll not tell you any 
more about the dinner, except that I ’d like to have one 
like it every Saturday in the year. If I happened to 
be too sick to eat it, I could sit up and look at it. Any- 
how, we all had enough and to spare. 

“After we had finished with the barbecue and were 
sitting in Brother Bear’s front porch smoking our 
24 


BROTHER WOLF’S TWO BIG DINNERS 

pipes and talking politics, I happened to mention to 
Brother Bear something about Brother Wolf’s barbecue. 
I said, says I, that I thought I ’d go by Brother Wolf’s 
house as I went on home, though it was a right smart 
step out of the way, just to see how the land lay. 

“Says Brother Bear, says he: ‘If you’ll wait till my 
company take their leave, I don’t mind trotting over 
to Brother Wolf’s with you. The walk will help to 
settle my dinner.’ 

“So, about two hours by sun, we started out and 
went to Brother Wolf’s house. Brother Bear knew a 
short cut through the big canebrake, and it did n’t 
take us more than half an hour to get there. Brother 
Wolf was just telling his company good-bye: and when 
they had all gone, he would have us go in and taste his 
mutton stew, and then he declared he’d think right 
hard of us if we did n’t drink a mug or two of his per- 
simmon beer. 

“I said, says I, ‘Brother Wolf, have you seen Brother 
Fox to-day?’ 

“Brother Wolf said, says he, ‘I declare, I have n’t 
seen hair nor hide of Brother Fox. I don’t see why he 
didn’t come. He’s always keen tc go where there’s 
fresh meat a-frying.’ 

“I said, says I, ‘The reason I asked was because I 
left Brother Fox at the forks of the road trying to 
make up his mind whether he ’d eat at your house or at 
Brother Bear’s.’ 

“‘Well, I’m mighty sorry,’ says Brother Wolf, says 
he; ‘Brother Fox never missed a finer chance to pick a 
bone than he ’s had to-day. Please tell him so for me.’ 

25 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“I said I would, and then I told Brother Wolf and 
Brother Bear good-bye and set out for home. Brother 
Wolf’s persimmon beer had a little age on it, and it 
made me light-headed and nimble-footed. I went in a 
gallop, as you may say, and came to the forks of the 
road before the sun went down. 

“ You may not believe it, but when I got there Brother 
Fox was there going through the same motions that 
made me laugh in the morning — running down one 
road and licking his chops, and then running down the 
other and licking his chops. 

“Says I, ‘I hope you had a good dinner at Brother 
Wolf’s to-day, Brother Fox.’ 

“Says he, ‘I’ve had no dinner.’ 

“Says I, ‘That’s mighty funny. Brother Bear had a 
famous barbecue, and I thought Brother Wolf was 
going to have one too.’ 

“Says Brother Fox, ‘Is dinner over? Is it too late 
to go?’ 

“Says I, ‘Why, Brother Fox, the sun ’s nearly down. 
By the time you get to Brother Bear’s house, he’ll be 
gone to bed; and by the time you go across the swamp 
to Brother Wolf’s house, the chickens will be crowing 
for day.’ 

“‘Well, well, well!’ says Brother Fox, ‘I’ve been all 
day trying to make up my mind which road I’d take, 
and now it ’s too late.’ 

“And that was the fact,” continued Mr. Rabbit. 
“The poor creature had been all day trying to make up 
his mind which road he’d take. Now, then, what is 
the moral?” 


26 


BROTHER WOLF’S TWO BIG DINNERS 


Sweetest Susan looked at Mrs. Meadows, but Mrs. 
Meadows merely smiled. Buster John rattled the 
marbles in his pocket. 

“I know,” said Drusilla. 

“What?” inquired Mr. Rabbit. 

“ Go down one road an’ git one dinner, den cut ’cross 
an’ git some mo’ dinner, an’ den go back home down de 
yuther road.” 

Mr. Rabbit shook his head. 

“Tar Baby, you are wrong,” he said. 

“If you want anything, go and get it,” suggested 
Buster John. 

Mr. Rabbit shook his head and looked at Sweetest 
Susan, whereupon she said : — 

“If you can’t make up your mind, you’ll have to go 
hungry.” 

Mr. Rabbit shook his head. 

“Eat a good breakfast,” said Mrs. Meadows, “and 
you won’t be worried about your dinner.” 

“All wrong!” exclaimed Mr. Rabbit, with a chuckle. 
“The moral is this: He who wants too much is more 
than likely to get nothing.” 

“Well,” remarked Mrs. Meadows dubiously, “if 
you have to work out a moral as if it was a sum in 
arithmetic, I’ll thank you not to trouble me with any 
more morals.” 

“The motion is seconded and carried,” exclaimed 
Mr. Thimblefinger. 


BROTHER RABBIT'S 
ASTONISHING PRANK 

By Joel Chandler Harris 

T ’SPECK dat ’uz de reas’n w’at make ole Brer 

Rabbit git ’long so well, kaze he ain’t copy atter none 
er de yuther creeturs,” Uncle Remus continued, after 
a while. “W’en he make his disappearance ’fo’ um, hit 
’uz allers in some bran new place. Dey aint know whar- 
bouts fer ter watch out fer ’im. He wuz de funniest 
creetur er de whole gang. Some folks moughter call 
him lucky, en yit, w’en he git in bad luck, hit look lak 
he mos’ allers come out on top. Hit look mighty 
kuse now, but ’t wa’n’t kuse in dem days, kaze hit ’uz 
done gun up dat, strike ’im w’en you might en whar 
you would, Brer Rabbit wuz de soopless creetur gwine. 

“One time, he sorter tuck a notion, ole Brer Rabbit 
did, dat he’d pay Brer B’ar a call, en no sooner do de 
notion strike ’im dan he pick hisse’f up en put out fer 
Brer B’ar house.” 

“Why, I thought they were mad with each other,” 
the little boy exclaimed. 

“Brer Rabbit make he call w’en Brer B’ar en his 
fambly wuz off fum home,” Uncle Remus explained, 
with a chuckle which was in the nature of a hearty 
tribute to the crafty judgment of Brother Rabbit. 

“He sot down by de road, en he see um go by — ole 
28 


% 



• ** p is 






V . w - vi v*. 




MJS .,.. 


to. 


S<^ x .^1 


♦■•••■: 




. • *** 


<i®r. 




UNCLE REMUS 


*>*3 



BROTHER RABBIT’S PRANK 

Brer B’ar en ole Miss B’ar, en der two twin-chilluns, 
w’ich one un urn wuz name Kubs en de t’er one wuz 
name Klibs.” 

The little boy laughed, but the severe seriousness of 
Uncle Remus would have served for a study, as he con- 
tinued : — 

“Ole Brer B’ar en Miss B’ar, dey went ’long ahead, 
en Kubs en Klibs, dey come shufflin’ en scramblin’ ’long 
behime. W’en Brer Rabbit see dis, he say ter hisse’f 
dat he ’speck he better go see how Brer B’ar gittin’ 
on; en off he put. En ’t wa’n’t long n’er ’fo’ he wuz 
ransackin’ de premmuses same like he wuz sho’ ’nuff 
patter-roller. W’iles he wuz gwine ’roun’ peepin’ in 
yer en pokin’ in dar, he got ter foolin’ ’mong de shelfs, 
en a bucket er honey w’at Brer B’ar got hid in de cub- 
bud fall down en spill on top er Brer Rabbit, en little 
mo’n he’d er bin drown. Fum head ter heels dat 
creetur wuz kiver’d wid honey; he wa’n’t des only be- 
dobble wid it, he wuz des kiver’d. He hatter set dar en 
let de natal sweetness drip outen he eyeballs ’fo’ he 
kin see he han’ befo’ ’im, en den, atter he look ’roun’ 
little, he say to hisse’f, sezee: — 

“‘Heyo, yer! W’at I gwine do now? Eflgooutinde 
sunshine, de bumly-beesende flies dey ’ll sworn up’n take 
me, en if I stay yer, Brer B’ar ’ll come back en ketch me, 
en I dunner w’at in de name er gracious I gwine do.* 
“Ennyhow, bimeby a notion strike Brer Rabbit, en 
he tip ’long twel he git in de woods, en w’en he git out 
dar, w’at do he do but roll in de leafs en trash en try fer 
ter rub de honey off’n ’im dat a-way. He roll, he did, 
en de leafs dey stick; Brer Rabbit roll, en de leafs dey 
29 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


stick, en he keep on rollin’ en de leafs keep on stickin’, 
twel atter w’ile Brer Rabbit wuz de mos’ owdashus- 
lookin’ creetur w’at you ever sot eyes on. En ef Miss 
Meadows en de gals could er seed ’im den en dar, dey 
would n’t er bin no mo’ Brer Rabbit call at der house; 
’deed, en dat dey would n’t. 

“Brer Rabbit, he jump ’roun’, he did, en try ter 
shake de leafs off ’n ’im, but de leafs, dey ain’t gwine ter 
be shuck off. Brer Rabbit, he shake en he shiver, but 
de leafs dey stick; en de capers dat creetur cut up out 
dar in de woods by he own-alone se’f wuz scan’lous — 
dey wuz dat; dey wuz scan’lous. 

“Brer Rabbit see dis wa’n’t gwine ter do, en he ’low 
ter hisse’f dat he better be gittin’ on todes home, en 
off he put. I ’speck you done year talk ez deze yer 
booggers w’at gits ater bad chilluns,” continued Uncle 
Remus, in a tone so seriously confidential as to be al- 
together depressing; “well, den, des ’zactly dat a- way 
Brer Rabbit look, en ef you’d er seed ’im you’d er 
made sho’ he de gran’-daddy er all de booggers. Brer 
Rabbit pace ’long, he did, en ev’y motion he make, de 
leafs dey’d go swishy-swushy, splushy-splishy , en, fum 
de fuss he make en de way he look, you ’d er tuck ’im 
ter be de mos’ suvvigus varment w’at disappear fum 
de face er de yeth sence ole man Noah let down de 
draw-bars er de ark en tu’n de creeturs loose; en I 
boun’ ef you ’d er struck up long wid ’im, you ’d er 
been mighty good en glad ef you ’d er got off wid dat. 

“De fus’ man w’at Brer Rabbit come up wid wuz ole 
Sis Cow, en no sooner is she lay eyes on ’im dan she 
h’ist up ’er tail in de elements, en put out like a pack 
30 


BROTHER RABBIT’S PRANK 

er dogs wuz atter ’er. Dis make Brer Rabbit laff, kaze 
he know dat w’en a ole settle’ ’oman like Sis Cow run 
’stracted in de broad open day-time, dat dey mus’ 
be sump’n’ mighty kuse ’bout dem leafs en dat honey, 
en he keep on a-rackin’ down de road. De nex’ man 
w’at he meet wuz a black gal tollin’ a whole passel er 
plantation shotes, en w’en de gal see Brer Rabbit come 
prancin’ ’long, she fling down ’er basket er com en des 
fa’rly fly, en de shotes, dey tuck thoo de woods, en 
sech n’er racket ez dey kick up wid der runnin’, en 
der snortin’, en der squealin’ ain’t never bin year in 
dat settlement needer befo’ ner since. Hit keep on dis 
a-way long ez Brer Rabbit meet anybody — dey des 
broke en run like de Ole Boy wuz atter um. 

“ C’ose, dis make Brer Rabbit feel monst’us biggity, 
en he ’low ter hisse’f dat he ’speck he better drap 
Toun’ en skummish in de neighborhoods er Brer Fox 
house. En w’iles he wuz stannin’ dar runnin’ dis ’roun’ 
in he min’, yer come ole Brer B’ar en all er he fambly. 
Brer Rabbit, he git crossways de road, he did, en he 
sorter sidle todes um. Old Brer B’ar, he stop en look, 
but Brer Rabbit, he keep on sidlin’ todes um. Ole 
Miss B’ar, she stan’ it long ez she kin, en den she fling 
down ’er parry sol en tuck a tree. Brer B’ar look lak he 
gwine ter stan’ his groun’, but Brer Rabbit he jump 
straight up in de a’r en gin hisse’f a shake, en, bless 
yo’ soul, honey! ole Brer B’ar make a break, en dey 
tells me he to’ down a whole panel er fence gittin’ 
’way fun dar. En ez ter Kubs en Klibs, dey tuck der 
hats in der han’s, en dey went skaddlin’ thoo de bushes 
des same ez a drove er hosses.” 

31 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“And then what?” the little boy asked. 

“Brer Rabbit p’raded on down de road,” continued 
Uncle Remus, “en bimeby yer come Brer Fox en Brer 
Wolf, fixin’ up a plan fer ter nab Brer Rabbit, en dey 
wuz so intents on der confab dat dey got right on Brer 
Rabbit ’fo’ dey seed ’im; but, gentermens! w’en dey is 
ketch a glimpse un ’im, dey gun ’im all de room he 
want. Brer Wolf, he try ter show off, he did, kase he 
wanter play big ’fo’ Brer Fox, en he stop en ax Brer 
Rabbit who is he. Brer Rabbit, he jump up en down 
in de middle er de road, en holler out: — 

“‘I’m de Wull-er-de-Wust. 1 I’m de Wull-er-de- 
Wust, en youer de man I’m atter!’ 

“Den Brer Rabbit jump up en down en make lak 
he gwine atter Brer Fox en Brer Wolf, en de way dem 
creeturs lit out fum dar wuz a caution. 

“Long time atter dat,” continued Uncle Remus, fold- 
ing his hands placidly in his lap, with the air of one who 
has performed a pleasant duty — “long time atter dat. 
Brer Rabbit come up wid Brer Fox en Brer Wolf, en he 
git behime a stump, Brer Rabbit did, en holler out: 

“‘I’m de Wull-er-de-Wust, en youer de mens I’m 
atter!* 

“Brer Fox en Brer Wolf, dey broke, but ’fo* dey got 
outer sight en outer year’n’, Brer Rabbit show hisse’f, 
he did, en laugh fit ter kill hisse’f. Atterwuds, Miss 
Meadows she year ’bout it, en de nex’ time Brer Fox 
call, de gals dey up en giggle, en ax ’im ef he ain’t feard 
de Wull-er-de-Wust mought drap in.” 

1 Or Wull-er-de-Wuts. Probably a fantastic corruption of “will- 
o’-the-wisp,” though this is not by any means certain. 

32 



















































































































































































THE TAKING OF THE 
FURBUSH-T AILB Y S 

By Eliza Orne White 


NE morning Billy and Tommy went out into the 



back yard together. This was a rare treat, but 
they were able to go with easy minds, as Elvira prom- 
ised to look after Sammy while they were away. When 
they came home they found their young brother in 
a state of such excitement that his tail was fairly 
bristling. He burst out with his news before they were 
inside the door. 

“Miss Winifred came out into the kitchen and told 
Elvira that a big bird was to come and take us all off 
to-morrow,” was his startling announcement. 

“A bird!” cried Billy. “That is impossible! There’s 
no bird on the face of this earth that ’s big enough to 
carry me off.” And he drew himself up to his full 
height. 

“You are just haverin’, Sam,” said Tommy. He 
had picked up this expression from Miss Stuart, the 
Scotch trained nurse. 

“That’s what she said,” Sam insisted. “I thought 
maybe it was some kind of rooster in a very large size. 
I met the Dunns’ rooster in the back yard the other 
day, and I did n’t like the looks of him. He is bigger 
than me.” 


33 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“Than I,” said Tommy patiently. “Tell us just 
what she said, Sammy.” 

“It was this way,” said Sam: “Miss Winifred 
came out into the kitchen, and she said, quite pleased 
as if it was something she was glad about, ‘All the 
arrangements are made, Elvira. If the weather is 
good enough, Mr. Bird is coming to-morrow to take 
the kittens.’” 

Horror descended upon the whole group. 

“Mr. Bird is a man,” said Billy, with conviction, 
“and he is coming to take us all to some new home.” 

“I don’t want to be took, I don’t want to be took!” 
cried Sam; and his brothers felt too much consterna- 
tion to stop to correct his grammar. 

“We’ll consult Joe,” said Tommy, who had an in- 
tense admiration for his eldest brother. 

When Joe came home, he was sure that “kittens” 
did not mean the entire family. “I am not at all wor- 
ried about myself,” he said; “they couldn’t keep 
house without me; but I am very uneasy about the 
rest of you.” 

“I can tell you I will never be taken away in any- 
thing,” said Billy, whose historic ride in the cat basket 
had been enough for him. “I’ll scratch and bite and 
claw so they’ll have to let me stay at home.” 

“But where will home be,” asked Joe gloomily, “if 
Miss Winifred is tired of you?” 

“Home will be wherever Sammy is,” said Tommy. 
“Whatever happens, I’ll never desert him. Mother 
told us always to stick together.” 

“But I don’t want to stick together if you are going 
34 


THE FURBUSH-TAILBYS 

away,” said the ungrateful Sammy. “I want to stay 
right here with Joe and Elvira.” 

The next morning was a gray one, and there seemed 
to be some doubt as to whether Mr. Bird would come, 
for there was considerable telephoning back and 
forth. 

“He must be very old and sick if he minds coming 
out on a day like this,” said Tommy. 

At an early hour Elvira sought Joe and locked him 
up ignominiously in the shed. 

His heart was broken, for it was evident that he too 
was to go to seek his fortune in a new home. Miss 
Winifred must have determined to make a clean sweep 
of them all. 

The three others had been shut into the sewing room, 
where they talked over the situation in low tones, as 
the morning dragged itself away. 

When Mr. Bird came at last, he was shown up into 
the sewing room, where the three frightened kittens 
were huddled together. He looked neither old nor sick, 
and strong enough to compel the most determined cat 
to do his bidding, if he once laid hands on him. 

“This one is the handsomest,” said Mr. Bird, sin- 
gling out Billy. “He has a fine tail.” 

Billy ran into a corner and tried to get his tail out of 
sight. 

“It will be best to take one at a time,” said Mr. 
Bird. 

Horrible thought ! So they were not even to have the 
comfort of leaving home together! 

“I’ll go and get my camera ready,” said Mr. Bird. 

35 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“What’s a camera?” asked Sammy, in awestruck 
tones. 

“It’s a kind of cat basket,” said Billy, with con- 
viction. 

“It must be small, or he could take two of us at a 
time.” 

“It is small. It is just a tight fit for a good-sized 
cat.” 

Billy had such a vivid imagination that he was never 
at a loss for an explanation. 

And still the agonizing moments passed, and Mr. 
Bird did not reappear. 

“He must have taken Joe away,” said Billy; and 
the three put their ears close to the door in their effort 
to catch some sound. 

Meanwhile Joe had been brought into the Manns’ 
front hall, which looked very unhomelike, for all the 
plants had been taken from the window sill and were 
standing on the floor. Joe liked to walk in and out 
among the flowerpots in this miniature grove, where 
the loftiest branches were not very much higher than 
his head. But there was no time for this now. A tall 
screen that was usually in Mr. Mann’s room was placed 
near the window, and there stood Mr. Bird with a large 
box and a gloomy black piece of cloth. 

Joe was paralyzed with fear. If it had not been that 
his friend Elvira held him in her arms, he felt that he 
should have dropped dead with terror. The only other 
comforting object was the cushion he used to sit on 
when he was a kittenette. Elvira must have brought 
it down from the sewing room. 

36 


THE FURBUSH-TAILBYS 


“You will have to hold him until I am ready,” said 
Mr. Bird, in so clear a voice that the three listening 
kittens heard the ominous words. “That ’s right. No, 
he has moved. Put his tail out, it is the best part of 
him.” 

The best part of him! Joe felt the indignity of the 
remark, for what is the tail of any cat compared to his 
eyes and mouth? And Joe had always been especially 
proud of that pink mouth of his. He snuggled up to 
Elvira, waiting for the awful moment when Mr. Bird 
should put him in that box, or, worse still, make the 
piece of black cloth into a bag and dump him in, head 
first, as Dr. Murray had done when he took him to the 
hospital. 

Suddenly Mr. Bird flung the black cloth over his 
own head, instead of putting Joe into it. 

“Take away your hand now,” he said to Elvira. 

There was a little click, and Mr. Bird said, “That 
was very good.” 

More and more mystified, Joe had to go through the 
same thing over and over again, until his nerves became 
calmer, for he saw that he was not to be taken away 
after all. 

“He is going to make a very good photograph,” 
said Mr. Bird, and at last Joe understood. He longed 
to pass on his encouraging knowledge to his brothers, 
but he had no chance, for Elvira immediately opened 
the front door and let him out. 

Billy was the next to be brought down, and when he 
saw the camera he was more sure than ever that it was 
a new kind of cat basket, and that Mr. Bird was going 
37 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


to do him up in the black cloth and then put him in 
the camera and carry him away. Joe, who had dug his 
claws into Elvira in more than one place, had been 
gentle and mild compared with Billy. He scratched 
Elvira’s arm until it bled, then he tore her apron. He 
was sorry to do it, but he wanted to make it clear to 
her that he had no intention of being taken away in the 
camera. It seemed so strange she could not under- 
stand, for all the time he was saying in his own lan- 
guage, “I won’t go! I won’t go! Nobody can make 
me go.” 

“Nice Billy! This cat has a fine head. He has beau- 
tiful eyes and a superb tail. Just look at the markings 
on it.” 

Billy was sure that Mr. Bird was trying to put him 
in a more tolerant frame of mind, but it would not 
work. Billy had had too much experience in the line 
of compliments. He remembered the words of the 
French lady. 

“Hold him firmly now. There, that’s it. No, he 
has moved. Put his tail more to the front. That’s 
just right. Now take your hand away.” 

She did and Billy felt the supreme moment had 
come. He did not dare to run out past Mr. Bird, for 
fear of being caught, so he gave a flying leap and landed 
on top of the screen that was six feet high; then he 
jumped to the floor, dropping down among the plants, 
and dashed wildly upstairs. He hoped he had now given 
a hint sufficiently broad for Mr. Bird to take. 

It was of no use, however; Elvira caught him and 
brought him back, and the whole performance had to 
38 


THE FURBUSH-TAILBYS 

be gone through again and again. When he was put 
out of doors and set at liberty at the end of his inter- 
view with Mr. Bird, instead of being caged in the cam- 
era, a more astonished kitten could not have been 
found. 

Tommy was the next subject, and being of a more 
placid disposition than his elder brothers, he failed to 
distinguish himself by any violent actions. He merely 
growled at intervals, like a young lion. 

“He looks very like Joe,” said Mr. Bird. “If it was 
not for the black spot on Joe’s nose I could hardly 
tell them apart.” 

Then Tommy’s heart swelled with pride, for he 
adored his big brother. 

Now Sam had been alone in the sewing room for 
some time, it seemed to him at least a week; so when 
Elvira came for him he purred and purred, as she was 
carrying him downstairs, for he was so glad to see her 
friendly face. He was not frightened until he saw Mr. 
Bird with the camera and the piece of black cloth. 
The next thing he noticed was that all the plants had 
left the window seat. If the trees on the lawn had 
walked away, Sam could not have been more surprised. 
What a terror Mr. Bird must be if the very trees on 
the window seat were trying to get away from him! 
And what had Mr. Bird done with Sammy’s brothers? 
They had all vanished. There was not a single familiar 
furry face in sight, nor even the whisking of a tail in 
the distance. 

Mr. Bird began to give a series of catcalls and whist- 
ling and barkings to attract Sammy’s attention, and 
39 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Sammy, instead of being paralyzed by fear, opened his 
mouth wide and gave a powerful hiss. For, in spite of 
the care with which his brothers had tried to prevent 
his learning this accomplishment, he had picked it up. 
In the midst of the taking of a photograph Sam heard 
a familiar sound. It was the voice of his idolized brother 
Joe. Sammy put one paw on the window sill and looked 
out. Yes, there was Joe, alive and well, coming to 
show himself like the noble fellow he was, so that Sam 
might be encouraged. 

A little later the three younger Furbush-Tailbys 
were all in the sewing room together, having a social 
meal of meat and bread and milk, while Joe was scour- 
ing the neighborhood, trying to find Daisy Wilde, to 
tell her that he had had his photograph taken. 


THE TRAVELS OF THE TWO 
FROGS 

By William Elliot Griffis 

L ONG, long ago, in the good old days before the 
hairy-faced and pale-cheeked men from over the 
Seat of Great Peace came to Japan; before the coal- 
smoke and snorting iron horse scared the white heron 
from the rice fields; before black crows and fighting 
sparrows, which fear not man, perched on telegraph 
wires, or even a railway was thought of, there lived two 
frogs — one in a well in Kioto, the other in a lotus pond 
in Osaka, forty miles away. 

Now it is a common proverb in the Land .of the Gods 
that “the frog in the well knows not of the great 
ocean,” and the Kioto frog had so often heard this 
scornful sneer from the maids who came to draw out 
water with their long bamboo-handled buckets that 
he resolved to travel abroad and see the world, and 
especially the great ocean. 

“I’ll see for myself,” said Mr. Frog, as he packed 
his wallet and wiped his spectacles, “what this great 
ocean is that they talk so much about. I’ll wager it 
is n’t half as deep or wide as my well, where I can see 
the stars even at daylight.” 

Now the truth was, a recent earthquake had greatly 
reduced the depth of the well and the water was get- 
41 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


ting very shallow. Mr. Frog informed the family of 
his intentions. Mrs. Frog wept a great deal; but, dry- 
ing her eyes with her paper handkerchief, she declared 
she would count the hours on her fingers till he came 
back, and at every morning and evening meal would 
set out his table with food on it, just as if he were at 
home. She tied up a little lacquered box full of boiled 
rice and snails for his journey, wrapped it around with a 
silk napkin, and, putting his extra clothes in a bundle, 
swung it on his back. Tying it over his neck, he seized 
his staff and was ready to go. 

“Sayonara ” cried he, as, with a tear in his eye, he 
walked away; for that is the Japanese word for “good- 
bye.” 

“Sayonara” croaked Mrs. Frog and the whole 
family of young frogs in a chorus. 

Two of the tiniest froggies were still babies, that is, 
they were yet pollywogs, with a hah inch of tail still 
on them; and, of course, were carried about by being 
strapped on the backs of their older brothers. 

Mr. Frog being now on land, out of his well, noticed 
that the other animals did not leap, but walked up- 
right on their hind legs; and, not wishing to be eccen- 
tric, he likewise began briskly walking the same way. 

Now it happened that about the same time the Osaka 
Frog had become restless and dissatisfied with life on 
the edges of his lotus ditch. He had made up his mind 
to “cast the lion’s cub into the valley.” 

“Why, that is tall talk for a frog, I must say!” you 
may exclaim. “What did he mean?” 

To see what he meant, we will go back a bit. I must 
42 


THE TRAVELS OF THE TWO FROGS 

tell you that the Osaka Frog was a philosopher. Right 
at the edge of his lotus pond was a monastery, full of 
Buddhist monks, who every day studied their sacred 
rolls and droned over the books of the sage, to learn 
them by heart. Our frog had heard them so often that 
he could (in frog language, of course) repeat many 
of their wise sentences and intone responses to their 
evening prayers put up to the great idol Amida. 
Indeed, our frog had so often listened to their debates 
on texts from the classics that he had himself become a 
sage and a philosopher. Yet, as the proverb says, “the 
sage is not happy.” 

Why not? In spite of a soft mud bank, plenty of 
green scum, stagnant water, and shady lotus leaves, 
a fat wife, and a numerous family — in short, every- 
thing to make a frog happy — his forehead, or rather 
gullet, was wrinkled with care from long pondering of 
knotty problems, such as the following : — 

The monks often came down to the edge of the pond 
to look at the pink and white lotus. One summer day 
as a little frog, hardly out of his tadpole stage, with a 
small fragment of tail still left, sat basking on a huge 
round leaf, one monk said to another: — 

“Of what does that remind you?” 

“The babies of frogs will become but frogs,” said one 
shaven pate, laughing. 

“What think you?” 

“The white lotus flower springs out of the black 
mud,” said the other, solemnly, as both walked away. 

The old frog, sitting near by, overheard them and 
began to philosophize: “Humph! The babies of frogs 
43 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


will become but frogs, hey? If mud becomes lotus, why 
should n’t a frog become a man? Why not? If my pet 
son should travel abroad and see the world — go to 
Kioto, for instance — why should n’t he be as wise as 
those shining-headed men, I wonder? I shall try it, 
anyhow. I ’ll send my son on a journey to Kioto. I ’ll 
‘cast the lion’s cub into the valley,’” which, you see, 
meant pretty much the same thing. 

Plump! squash! sounded the water, as a pair of 
webby feet disappeared. The “lion’s cub” was soon 
ready, after much paternal advice, and much counsel 
to beware of being gobbled up by long-legged storks, 
and trod on by impolite men, and struck at by bad 
boys. 

“Even in the Capital there are boors,” said Father 
Frog. 

Now it so happened that the old frog from Kioto 
and the “lion’s cub” from Osaka started each from his 
home at the same time. Nothing of importance oc- 
curred to either of them until, as luck would have it, 
they met on a hill near Hashimoto, which is halfway 
between the two cities. Both were footsore and web- 
sore, and very tired, especially about the hips, on ac- 
count of the unfroglike manner of walking, instead of 
hopping as they had been used to do. 

“ Ohio gozarimasu ,” said the “lion’s cub” to the old 
frog, by way of “good-morning,” as he fell on all fours 
and bowed his head to the ground three times, squint- 
ing up over his left eye, to see if the other frog was 
paying equal deference in return. 

“Yes, good-day,” replied the Kioto Frog. 

44 


THE TRAVELS OF THE TWO FROGS 

“It is rather fine weather to-day, ” said the young- 
ster. 

“Yes, it is very fine,” replied the old fellow. 

“I am Gamataro, from Osaka, the oldest son of 
Lord Bullfrog, Prince of the Lotus Ditch.” 

“Your Lordship must be weary of your journey. I 
am Sir Frog of the Well in Kioto. I started out to see 
the ‘great ocean’ from Osaka; but, I declare, my hips 
are so dreadfully tired that I believe I’ll give up my 
plan and content myself with a look from this hill.” 

The truth must be owned that the old frog was not 
only on his hind legs, but also on his last legs, when he 
stood up to look at Osaka; while the youngster was 
tired enough to believe anything. The old fellow, wip- 
ing his face, spoke up : — * 

“Suppose we save ourselves the trouble of the 
journey. I have been told that this hill is halfway be- 
tween the two cities, and while I see Osaka and the sea, 
you can get a good look at Kioto.” 

“Happy thought!” said the Osaka Frog. 

Then both reared themselves upon their hind legs, 
once more, and stretching upon their toes, body to 
body, and neck to neck, propped each other up, rolled 
their goggles and looked steadily, as they supposed, 
on the places which they each wished to see. Now 
every one knows that a frog has eyes mounted in that 
part of his head which is front when he is down and back 
when he stands up. 

Long and steadily they gazed, until, at last, their 
toes being tired, they fell down on all fours. 

“I declare,” said the older frog, “Osaka looks just 
45 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


like Kioto; and as for the ‘great ocean’ those stupid 
maids talked about, I don’t see any at all, unless they 
mean that strip of river that looks for all the world 
like the Yodo. I don’t believe there is any ‘great 
ocean’!” 

“As for my part,” said the other, “I am satisfied 
that it’s all folly to go farther; for Kioto is as like Osaka 
as one grain of rice is like another.” 

Thereupon both congratulated themselves upon the 
happy labor-saving expedient by which they had 
spared themselves a long journey, much leg weariness, 
and some danger. They departed, after exchanging 
many compliments; and, dropping again into a frog’s 
hop, they leaped back in half the time — the one to his 
well and the other to his pond. There each told the 
story of both cities looking exactly alike, thus demon- 
strating the folly of those foolish folk called Men. As 
for the old gentleman in the lotus pond, he was so 
glad to get the “cub” back again that he never again 
tried to reason out the problems of philosophy. 

And so to this day the frog in the well knows not and 
believes not in the “great ocean.” Still do the babies 
of frogs become but frogs. Still is it vain to teach the 
reptiles philosophy; for all such labor is “like pouring 
water in a frog’s face.” 


SUNDAY MORNING AND THE 
COW 

By Elisabeth Woodbridge 

I T was a hot, still Sunday in July. The hens sought 
the shade early, and stood about with their beaks 
half open and a distant look in their eyes* as if they saw 
you but chose to look just beyond you. It always irri- 
tates me to see the hens do that. It makes me feel 
hotter. Such a day it was. But things on the farm 
seemed propitious, and we said at breakfast that we 
would go. 

“I ’ve just got to take that two-year-old Devon down 
to the lower pasture,” said Jonathan, “and then I’ll 
harness. We ought to start early, because it ’s too hot 
to drive Kit fast.” 

“Do you think you’d better take the cow down this 
morning?” I said doubtfully. “Couldn’t you wait 
until we come back?” 

“No; that upper pasture is getting burned out, and 
she ought to get into some good grass this morning. I 
meant to take her down last night.” 

“Well, do hurry.” I still felt dubious. 

“Oh, it’s only five minutes’ walk down the road,” 
said Jonathan easily. “I’m all ready for church, ex- 
cept for these shoes. I ’ll have the carriage at the door 
before you’re dressed.” 


47 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


I said no more, but went upstairs, while Jonathan 
started for the barnyard. A few minutes later I heard 
from that direction the sounds of exhortation such as 
are usually employed toward “critters.” They seemed 
to be coming nearer. I glanced out of a front window, 
and saw Jonathan and his cow coming up the road past 
the house. 

“Where are you taking her?” I called. “I thought 
you meant to go the other way.” 

“So I did,” he shouted, in some irritation. “But 
she swung up to the right as she went out of the gate, 
and I could n’t head her off in time. Oh, there ’s Bill 
Russell. Head her round, will you, Bill? There, now 
we ’re all right.” 

“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he called up at my 
window as he repassed. 

I watched them go back up the road. At the big 
farm gate the cow made a break for the barnyard 
again, but the two men managed to turn her. Just 
beyond, at the fork in the road, I saw Bill turn down 
toward the cider mill, while Jonathan kept on with 
his convoy over the hill. I glanced at the clock. It 
was not yet nine. There was plenty of time, of course. 

At half -past nine I went downstairs again, and wan- 
dered out toward the big gate. It seemed to me time for 
Jonathan to be back. In the Sunday hush I thought I 
heard sounds of distant “hi-ing.” They grew louder; 
yes, surely, there was the cow, just appearing over the 
hill and trotting briskly along the road toward home. 
And there was Jonathan, also trotting briskly. He 
looked red and warm. I stepped out into the road to 
48 


SUNDAY MORNING AND THE COW 

keep the cow from going past, but there was no need. 
She swung cheerfully in at the big gate and fell to 
cropping the long grass just inside the fence. 

Jonathan slowed down beside me, and, pulling out 
his handkerchief, began flapping the dust off his trou- 
sers while he explained : — 

“You see, I got her down there all right, but I had 
to let down the bars, and while I was doing that she 
went along the road a bit, and when she saw me com- 
ing she just kicked up her heels and galloped.” 

“How did you stop her?” I asked. 

“ I did n’t. The Maxwells were coming along with 
their team, and they headed her back for me. Then they 
went on. Only by that time, you see, she was a bit exci- 
ted, and when we came along back to those bars she shot 
right past them, and never stopped till she got here.” 

I looked at her grazing quietly inside the fence. 
“She does n’t look as though she had done so much” 
— and then, as I glanced at Jonathan, I could not for- 
bear saying — “but you do.” 

“I suppose I do.” He gave his trousers a last flick, 
and, putting up his handkerchief, shifted his stick to 
his right hand. 

“Well, put her back in the inner yard,” I said, “and 
this afternoon I’ll help you.” 

“Put her back!” said Jonathan. “Not much! You 
don’t think I ’d let a cow beat me that way!” 

“But Jonathan, it ’s half -past nine!” 

“ What of it? I ’ll just work her slowly — she ’s quiet 
now, you see, and the bars are open. There won’t be 
any trouble.” 


49 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“Oh, I wish you wouldn’t,” I said. But, seeing he 
was firm, “Well, if you will go, I ’ll harness.” 

Jonathan looked at me ruefully. “That ’s too bad 
— you ’re all dressed. ” He wavered, but I would take 
no concessions based on feminine equipment. “Oh, 
that does n’t matter. I ’ll get my big apron. First you 
start her out, and I ’ll keep her from going toward the 
house or down to the mill.” 

Jonathan sidled cautiously through the gate and 
around the grazing cow. Then, with a gentle and 
ingratiating “Hi there, Bossie!” he managed to turn 
her, still grazing, toward the road. While the grass 
held out she drifted along easily enough, but when she 
reached the dirt of the roadway she raised her head, 
flicked her tail, and gave a little hop with her hind 
quarters that seemed to me indicative of an unquiet 
spirit. But I stood firm and Jonathan was gently 
urgent, and we managed to start her on the right road 
once more. She was not, however, going as slowly as 
Jonathan had planned, and it was with some misgivings 
that I donned my apron and went in to harness Kit. 
I led her around to the carriage house and put her into 
the buggy, and still he had not returned. I got out 
the lap robe, shook it, and folded it neatly on the back 
of the seat. No Jonathan! There was nothing more 
for me to do, so I took off my apron and climbed into 
the carriage to wait. The carriage house was as cool 
a place as one could have found. Both its big sliding 
doors were pushed back, one opening out toward the 
front gate, the other, opposite, opening into the inner 
barnyard. I sat and looked out over the rolling, sunny 
50 


SUNDAY MORNING AND THE COW 

country and felt the breeze, warm, but fresh and sweet, 
and listened to the barn swallows in the barnyard 
behind me, and wondered, as I have wondered a thou- 
sand times, why in New England the outbuildings 
always have so much better views than the house. 

Ten o’clock! Where was Jonathan? The More- 
houses drove past, then the Elkinses; they went to the 
Baptist. Ten minutes past! There went the O’Neils 
— they belonged to our church — and the Scrantons, 
and Billy Howard and his sister, driving fast as usual; 
they were always late. Quarter-past ten! Well, we 
might as well give up church. I thought of unhar- 
nessing, but I was very comfortable where I was, and 
Kit seemed contented as she stood looking out of the 
door. Hark! What was that? It sounded like the 
beat of hoofs in the lane — the cattle would n’t come 
up at this hour! I stood up to see past the inner barn- 
yard and off down the lane. “What on earth!” I 
said to myself. For — yes — surely — that was the 
two-year-old Devon coming leisurely up the lane toward 
the yard. In a few moments Jonathan’s head 
appeared, then his shoulders, then his entire dusty, 
discouraged self. Yes, somehow or other, they must 
have made the round trip. As this dawned upon me, 
I smiled, then I laughed, then I sat down and laughed 
again till I was weak and tearful. It was cruel, and 
by the time Jonathan had reached the carriage house 
and sunk down on its threshold I had recovered enough 
to be sorry for him. But I was unfortunate in my 
first remark. “Why, Jonathan,” I gasped, “what 
have you been doing with that cow?” 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Jonathan mopped his forehead. “Having iced tea 
under the trees. Could n’t you see that to look at me?” 
he replied, almost savagely. 

“ You poor thing ! I ’ll make you some when we go in. 
But do tell me, how did you ever get around here again 
from the back of the farm that way?” 

“Easy enough,” said Jonathan. “ I drove her along 
to the pasture in great shape, only we were going a 
little fast. She tried to dodge the bars, but I turned 
her in through them all right. But some idiot had left 
the bars down at the other end of the pasture — be- 
tween that and the back lots, you know — and that 
blamed cow went for that opening, just as straight — ” 

I began to shake again. “ Oh, that brought you out 
by the huckleberry knoll, and the ledges! Why, she 
could go anywhere!” 

“She could, and she did,” said Jonathan grimly. 
He leaned back against the doorpost, immersed 
in bitter reminiscence. “She — certainly — did. I 
chased her up the ledges and through the sumachs and 
down through the birches and across the swamp. Oh, 
we did the farm, the whole blamed farm. What time 
is it?” 

“Half -past ten,” I said gently; and added, “What 
are you going to do with her now?” 

His jaw set in a fashion I knew. 

“I ’m going to put her in that lower pasture.” 

I saw it was useless to protest. Church was a van- 
ished dream, but I began to fear that Sunday dinner 
was also doomed. “Do you want me to help?” I 
asked. 


52 


SUNDAY MORNING AND THE COW 

“Oh, no,” said Jonathan. “I ’ll put her in the barn 
till I can get a rope, and then I’ll lead her.” 

However, I did help get her into the barn. Then 
while he went for his rope I unharnessed. When he 
came back, he had changed into a flannel shirt and 
working trousers. He entered the barn and in a few 
moments emerged, pulling hard on the rope. Nothing 
happened. 

“Go around the other way,” he called, “and take a 
stick, and poke that cow till she starts.” 

I went in at the back door, slid between the stanch- 
ions into the cow stall, and gingerly poked at the ani- 
mal’s hind quarters and said, “Hi!” until at last, with 
a hunching of hips and tossing of head, she bounded 
out into the sunny barnyard. 

“She ’ll be all right now,” said Jonathan. 

I watched them doubtfully, but they got through 
the bars and as far as the road without incident. At 
the road she suddenly balked. She twisted her horns 
and set her front legs. I hurried down from my post 
of observation in the carriage-house door, and said 
“Hi!” again. 

“That ’s no good,” panted Jonathan; “get your stick 
again. Now, when I pull, you hit her behind, and she ’ll 
come. I guess she has n’t been taught to lead yet.” 

“If she has, she has apparently forgotten,” I replied. 
“Now, then, you pull!” 

The creature moved on grudgingly, with curious and 
unlovely sidewise lunges and much brandishing of 
horns, where the rope was tied. 

“Hit her again, now!” said Jonathan. “Oh, hit 
53 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

her! Hit her harder! She doesn’t feel that. Hit 
her! There! Now she’s coming.” 

Truly, she did come. But I am ashamed to think 
how I used that stick. As we progressed up the road, 
over the hill, and down to the lower pasture, there 
• kept repeating themselves over and over in my head the 
1 lines: — 

“The sergeant pushed and the corporal pulled, 

And the three they wagged along.” 

But I did not quote these to Jonathan until afterwards. 
There was something else, too, that I did not quote 
until afterwards. This was the remark of a sailor 
uncle of mine: “A man never tackled a job yet that he 
did n’t have to have a woman to hold on to the slack.” 


A DISSERTATION UPON 
ROAST PIG 

By Charles Lamb 

IV/T ANKIND, says a Chinese manuscript, which my 
■L'L friend N. was obliging enough to read and explain 
to me, for the first seventy thousand ages ate their 
meat raw, clawing or biting it from the living animal, 
just as they do in Abyssinia to this day. This period 
is not obscurely hinted at by their great Confucius in 
the second chapter of his Mundane Mutations, where 
he designates a kind of golden age by the term Cho- 
fang, literally the Cook’s holiday. The manuscript 
goes on to say, that the art of roasting, or rather broil- 
ing (which I take to be the elder brother) was accidentally 
discovered in the manner following. The swineherd, 
Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods one morning, as 
his manner was, to collect mast for his hogs, left his 
cottage in the care of his eldest son Bo-bo, a great 
lubberly boy, who being fond of playing with fire, as 
younkers of his age commonly are, let some sparks es- 
cape into a bundle of straw, which, kindling quickly, 
spread the conflagration over every part of their poor 
mansion, till it was reduced to ashes. Together with 
the cottage (a sorry antediluvian makeshift of a build- 
ing, you may think it), what was of much more im- 
portance, a fine litter of new-farrowed pigs, no less than 
55 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

nine in number, perished. China pigs have been es- 
teemed a luxury all over the East from the remotest 
periods that we read of. Bo-bo was in utmost conster- 
nation, as you may think, not so much for the sake of 
the tenement, which his father and he could easily build 
up again with a few dry branches, and the labor of an 
hour or two, at any time, as for the loss of the pigs. 
While he was thinking what he should say to his father, 
and wringing his hands over the smoking remnants of 
one of those untimely sufferers, an odor assailed his 
nostrils, unlike any scent which he had before experi- 
enced. What could it proceed from? — not from the 
burned cottage — he had smelled that smell before — 
indeed this was by no means the first accident of the 
kind which had occurred through the negligence of this 
unlucky young firebrand. Much less did it resemble 
that of any known herb, weed, or* flower. A premoni- 
tory moistening at the same time overflowed his nether 
lip. He knew not what to think. He next stooped 
down to feel the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. 
He burned his fingers, and to cool them he applied them 
in his booby fashion to his mouth. Some of the crumbs 
of the scorched skin had come away with his fingers, 
and for the first time in his life (in the world’s life, in- 
deed, for before him no man had known it) he tasted 
— crackling! Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. 
It did not burn him so much now; still he licked his 
fingers from a sort of habit. The truth at length broke 
into his slow understanding, that it was the pig that 
smelled so, and the pig that tasted so delicious; and, sur- 
rendering himself up to the newborn pleasure, he fell 
56 


A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG 

to tearing up whole handfuls of the scorched skin with 
the flesh next it, and was cramming it down his throat 
in his beastly fashion, when his sire entered amid the 
smoking rafters, armed with retributory cudgel, and 
finding how affairs stood, began to rain blows upon 
the young rogue’s shoulders, as thick as hailstones, 
which Bo-bo heeded not any more than if they had been 
flies. The tickling pleasure which he experienced in his 
lower regions had rendered him quite callous to any 
inconveniences he might feel in those remote quarters. 
His father might lay on, but he could not beat him 
from his pig, till he had fairly made an end of it, when, 
becoming a little more sensible of his situation, some- 
thing like the following dialogue ensued. 

“You graceless whelp, what have you got there 
devouring? Is it not enough that you have burned me 
down three houses with your dog’s tricks, and be hanged 
to you, but you must be eating fire, and I know not 
what — what have you got there, I say?” 

“0 father, the pig, the pig, do come and taste how 
nice the burned pig eats.” 

The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed 
his son, and he cursed himself that ever he should be- 
get a son that should eat burned pig. 

Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since 
morning, soon raked out another pig, and fairly rend- 
ing it asunder, thrust the lesser half by main force into 
the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, “Eat, eat, eat the 
burned pig, father, only taste — O Lord,” — with 
such-like barbarous ejaculations, cramming all the 
while as if he would choke. 

57 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Ho-ti trembed in every joint while he grasped the 
abominable thing, wavering whether he should not put 
his son to death for an unnatural young monster, when 
the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had done his 
son’s, and applying the same remedy to them, he in 
his turn tasted some of its flavor, which, make what 
sour mouths he would for a pretense, proved not al- 
together displeasing to him. In conclusion (for the 
manuscript here is a little tedious) both father and son 
fairly sat down to the mess, and never left off till they 
had dispatched all that remained of the litter. 

Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret 
escape, for the neighbors would certainly have stoned 
them for a couple of abominable wretches, who could 
think of improving upon the good meat which God 
had sent them. Nevertheless strange stories got about. 
It was observed that Ho-ti’s cottage was burned 
down now more frequently than ever. Nothing but 
fires from this time forward. Some would break out 
in broad day, others in the night time. As often as 
the sow farrowed, so sure was the house of Ho-ti to be 
in a blaze; and Ho-ti himself, which was the more re- 
markable, instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow 
more indulgent to him than ever. 

At length they were watched, the terrible mys- 
tery discovered, and father and son summoned to 
take their trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable assize 
town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food it- 
self produced in court, and verdict about to be 
pronounced, when the foreman of the jury begged 
that some of the burned pig, of which the culprits 
58 


A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG 

stood accused, might be handed into the box. He 
handled it and they all handled it, and burning their 
fingers, as Bo-bo and his father had done before them, 
and nature prompting to each of them the same 
remedy, against the face of all the facts, and the clearest 
charge which judge had ever given — to the surprise 
of the whole court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters, and 
all present — without leaving the box, or any manner 
of consultation whatever, they brought in a simulta- 
neous verdict of Not Guilty. 

The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the 
manifest iniquity of the decision; and, when the court 
was dismissed, went privily, and bought up all the pigs 
that could be had for love or money. In a few days 
His Lordship’s town house was observed to be on fire. 
The thing took wing, and now there was nothing to be 
seen but fires in every direction. Fuel and pigs grew 
enormously dear all over the district. The insurance 
offices one and all shut up shop. People built slighter 
and slighter every day, until it was feared that the very 
science of architecture would in no long time be lost to 
the world. 

Thus this custom of firing houses continued till in 
process of time, says my manuscript, a sage arose, 
like our Locke, who made a discovery, that the flesh of 
swine, or indeed of any other animal, might be cooked 
( burned, as they called it) without the necessity of con- 
suming a whole house to dress it. Then first began the 
rude form of a gridiron. Roasting by the string, or 
spit, came in a century or two later, I forget in whose 
dynasty. By such slow degrees, concludes the manu- 
59 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

script, do the most useful, and seemingly the most 
obvious arts, make their way among mankind. 

Without placing too implicit faith in the account 
above given, it must be agreed, that if a worthy pretext 
for so dangerous an experiment as setting houses on fire 
(especially in these days) could be assigned in favor 
of any culinary object, that pretext and excuse might 
be found in roast pig. 

Of all the delicacies in the whole mundus edibilis , I 
will maintain it to be the most delicate — princess 
obsoniorum. 

I speak not of your grown porkers — things between 
pig and pork — those hobbydehoys — but a young and 
tender suckling — under a moon old — guiltless as yet 
of the sty — with no original speck of the amor immun - 
ditice , the hereditary failing of the first parent, yet 
manifest — his voice as yet not broken, but something 
between a childish treble and a grumble — the mild 
forerunner, or prceludium , of a grunt. 

He must be roasted. I am not ignorant that our 
ancestors ate them seethed, or boiled — but what a 
sacrifice of the exterior tegument! 

There is no flavor comparable, I will contend, to that 
of the crisp, tawny, well-watched, not over-roasted, 
crackling , as it is well called — the very teeth are invited 
to their share of the pleasure at this banquet in over- 
coming the coy, brittle resistance — with the adhesive 
oleaginous — O call it not fat — but an indefinable 
sweetness growing up to it — the tender blossoming of 
fat — fat cropped in the bud — taken in the shoot — in 
the first innocence — the cream and quintessence of the 
60 


A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG 

child-pig’s yet pure food — the lean, no lean, but a 
kind of animal manna — or, rather, fat and lean (if it 
must be so), so blended and running into each other, 
that both together make but one ambrosian result, or 
common substance. 

Behold him, while he is doing — it seemeth rather a 
refreshing warmth than a scorching heat, that he is 
so passive to. How equably he twirleth round the 
string! — Now he is just done. To see the extreme 
sensibility of that tender age, he hath wept out his 
pretty eyes — radiant jellies — shooting stars — 

See him in the dish, his second cradle, how meek he 
lieth ! — wouldst thou have had this innocent grow up 
to the grossness and indocility which too often accom- 
pany maturer swinehood? Ten to one he would have 
proved a glutton, a sloven, an obstinate, disagreeable 
animal — wallowing in all manner of filthy conversa- 
tion — from these sins he is happily snatched away — 

Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade. 

Death came with timely care — 

his memory is odoriferous — no clown curseth, while 
his stomach half rejecteth, the rank bacon — no coal- 
heaver bolteth him in reeking sausages — he hath a fair 
sepulcher in the grateful stomach of the judicious epi- 
cure — and for such a tomb might be content to die. 

He is the best of Sapors. Pineapple is great. She 
is indeed almost too transcendent — a delight, if not 
sinful, yet so like to sinning, that really a tender-con- 
scienced person would do well to pause — too ravishing 
for mortal taste, she woundeth and excoriateth the lips 
that approach her — like lovers’ kisses, she biteth — 
61 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


she is a pleasure bordering on pain from the fierceness 
and insanity of her relish — but she stoppeth at the 
palate — she meddleth not with the appetite — and 
the coarsest hunger might barter her consistently for a 
mutton chop. 

Pig — let me speak his praise — is no less provo- 
cative of the appetite, than he is satisfactory to the 
criticalness of the censorious palate. The strong man 
may batten on him, and weakling refuseth not his mild 
juices. 

Unlike to mankind’s mixed characters, a bundle of 
virtues and vices, inexplicably intertwisted, and not to 
be unraveled without hazard, he is — good throughout. 
No part of him is better or worse than another. He 
helpeth, as far as his little means extend, all around. 
He is the least envious of banquets. He is all neigh- 
bors’ fare. 

I am one of those, who freely and ungrudgingly im- 
part a share of the good things of this life which fall 
to their lot (few as mine are in this kind) to a friend. 
I protest I take as great an interest in my friend’s 
pleasures, his relishes, and proper satisfactions, as in 
mine own. “ Presents, ” I often say, “ endear Absents.” 
Hares, pheasants, partridges, snipes, barndoor chickens 
(those “tame villatic fowl”), capons, plovers, brawn, 
barrels of oysters, I dispense as freely as I receive 
them. I love to taste them, as it were, upon the tongue 
of my friend. But a stop must be put somewhere. 
One would not, like Lear, “give everything.” I make 
my stand upon pig. Methinks it is an ingratitude to 
the Giver of all good flavors, to extra-domiciliate, or 
62 


A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG 

send out of the house, slightingly (under pretext of 
friendship, or I know not what), a blessing so particu- 
larly adapted, predestined, I may say, to my individual 
palate — it argues an insensibility. 

I remember a touch of conscience in this kind at 
school. My good old aunt, who never parted from me 
at the end of a holiday without stuffing a sweetmeat, 
or some nice thing, into my pocket, had dismissed me 
one evening with a smoking plum cake, fresh from the 
oven. In my way to school (it was over London 
Bridge) a gray-headed old beggar saluted me (I have 
no doubt at this time of day that he was a counterfeit). 
I had no pence to console him with, and in the vanity 
of self-denial, and the very coxcombry of charity, 
schoolboy like, I made him a present of — the whole 
cake! I walked on a little, buoyed up, as one is on 
such occasions, with a sweet soothing of self-satisfac- 
tion; but before I had got to the end of the bridge 
my better feelings returned, and I burst into tears, 
thinking how ungrateful I had been to my good aunt, 
to go and give her good gift away to a stranger, that 
I had never seen before, and who might be a bad man 
for aught I knew; and then I thought of the pleasure 
my aunt would be taking in thinking that I — I myself 
and not another — would eat her nice cake — and what 
should I say to her the next time I saw her — how 
naughty I was to part with her pretty present — and 
the odor of that spicy cake came back upon my recol- 
lection, and the pleasure and the curiosity I had taken 
in seeing her make it, and her joy when she sent it to 
the oven, and how disappointed she would feel that I 
63 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

had never had a bit of it in my mouth at last — and I 
blamed my impertinent spirit of almsgiving, and out- 
of-place hypocrisy of goodness, and above all I wished 
never to see the face again of that insidious, good-for- 
nothing, old gray impostor. 

Our ancestors were nice in their method of sacri- 
ficing these tender victims. We read of pigs whipped 
to death with something of a shock, as we hear of any 
other obsolete custom. The age of discipline is gone 
by, or it would be curious to inquire (in a philosophi- 
cal light merely) what effect this process might have 
toward intenerating and dulcifying a substance, natu- 
rally so mild and dulcet as the flesh of young pigs. 
It looks like refining a violet. Yet we should be cau- 
tious, while w r e condemn the inhumanity, how we cen- 
sure the wisdom of the practice. It might impart a 
gusto — 

I remember an hypothesis, argued upon by the young 
students, when I was at St. Omer’s, and maintained 
with much learning and pleasantry on both sides, 
“Whether, supposing that the flavor of a pig who 
obtained his death by whipping ( per flagellationem 
extremam) superadded a pleasure upon the palate of a 
man more intense than any possible suffering we can 
conceive in the animal, is man justified in using that 
method of putting the animal to death?” I forget 
the decision. 

His sauce should be considered. Decidedly, a few 
bread crumbs, done up with his liver and brains, and 
a dash of mild sage. But, banish, dear Mrs. Cook, I 
beseech you, the whole onion tribe. Barbecue your 
64 


A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG 


whole hogs to your palate, steep them in shalots, stuff 
them out with plantations of the rank and guilty gar- 
lic; you cannot poison them, or make them stronger 
than they are — but consider, he is a weakling — a 
flower. 


A FORENOON WITH BUDGE 
AND TODDIE 

{Abridged) 

By John Ilabberton 

I N the morning I was awakened very early by the 
light streaming in the window, the blinds of which 
I had left open the night before. The air was alive 
with bird song and the eastern sky was flushed with 
tints which no painter’s canvas ever caught. But 
ante-sunrise skies and songs are not fit subjects for the 
continued contemplation of men who read until mid- 
night; so I hastily closed the blinds, drew the shade, 
dropped the curtains, and lay down again, dreamily 
thanking Heaven that I was to fall asleep to such ex- 
quisite music. I am sure that I mentally forgave all 
my enemies as I dropped off into a most delicious doze, 
but the sudden realization that a light hand was passing 
over my cheek roused me to savage anger in an instant. 
I sprang up, and saw Budge shrink timidly away from 
my bedside. 

“ I was only lovin’ you, ’cos you was good, and brought 
us candy. Papa lets us love him whenever we want to 
— every morning he does.” 

“As early as this?” demanded I. 

“Yes, just as soon as we can see, if we want to.” 
Poor Tom! I never could comprehend why, with a 
66 


BUDGE AND TODDIE 


good wife, a comfortable income, and a clear conscience, 
lie need always look thin and worn — worse than he 
ever did in Virginia woods or Louisiana swamps. But 
now I knew all. And yet, what could one do? That 
child’s eyes and voice, and his expression, which ex- 
ceeded in sweetness that of any of the angels I had 
ever imagined — that child could coax a man to do 
more self-forgetting deeds than the shortening of his 
precious sleeping hours amounted to. In fact, he was 
fast divesting me of my rightful sleepiness, so I kissed 
him and said : — 

“Run to bed, now, dear old fellow, and let uncle 
go to sleep again. After breakfast I ’ll make you a 
whistle. ” 

“Oh! will you?” The angel turned into the boy 
at once. 

“Yes; now run along.” 

“A loud whistle — a real loud one?” 

“Yes, but not if you don’t go right back to bed.” 

The sound of little footsteps receded as I turned over 
and closed my eyes. Speedily the bird song seemed to 
grow fainter; my thoughts dropped to pieces; I seemed to 
be floating on fleecy clouds, in company with hundreds 
of cherubs with Budge’s features and night drawers — 

“Uncle Harry!” 

May the Lord forget the prayer I put up just then! 

“I’ll discipline you, my fine little boy,” thought I. 
“Perhaps, if I let you shriek your abominable little 
throat hoarse, you ’ll learn better than to torment your 
uncle, that was just getting ready to love you dearly.” 

“Uncle Har -ray!” 


67 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“Howl away, you little imp,” thought I. “You’ve 
got me wide awake, and your lungs may suffer for it.” 
Suddenly I heard, although in sleepy tones, and with a 
lazy drawl, some words which appalled me. The 
murmurer was Toddie: — 

“Want — shee — wheels — go — wound.” 

“Budge!” I shouted, in the desperation of my 
dread lest Toddie, too, might wake up, “what do you 
want?” 

“Uncle Harry!” 

“What!” 

“Uncle Harry, what kind of wood are you going to 
make the whistle out of?” 

“I won’t make any at all — I’ll cut a big stick and 
give you a sound whipping with it, for not keeping 
quiet, as I told you to.” 

“Why, Uncle Harry, papa don’t whip us with sticks 
— he spanks us.” 

Heavens! Papa! papa! papa! Was I never to have 
done with this eternal quotation of “papa”? I was 
horrified to find myself gradually conceiving a dire 
hatred of my excellent brother-in-law. One thing was 
certain, at any rate: sleep was no longer possible; so I 
hastily dressed and went into the garden. Among the 
beauty and the fragrance of the flowers, and in the 
delicious morning air, I succeeded in regaining my tem- 
per, and was delighted, on answering the breakfast 
bell, two hours later, to have Budge accost me with : — 

“Why, Uncle Harry, where was you? We looked all 
over the house for you, and could n’t find a speck of 
you.” 


68 


BUDGE AND TODDIE 


The breakfast was an excellent one. I afterwards 
learned that Helen, dear old girl, had herself prepared 
a bill of fare for every meal I should take in the house. 
As the table talk of myself and nephews was not such 
as could do harm by being repeated, I requested 
Maggie, the servant, to wait upon the children, and I 
accompanied my request with a small treasury note. 
Relieved thus of all the responsibility for the dreadful 
appetites of my nephews, I did full justice to the repast, 
and even regarded with some interest and amusement 
the industry of Budge and Toddie with their tiny forks 
and spoons. They ate rapidly for a while, but soon 
their appetites weakened and their tongues were un- 
loosed. 

“Ocken Hawwy,” remarked Toddie, “daysh an 
awfoo funny chunt up ’tairs — awfoo big chunt. I 
show it you after brepspup.” 

“Toddie’s a silly little boy,” said Budge; “he always 
says brepspup for brekpux.” 

“Oh! What does he mean by ‘chunt,’ Budge?” 

“I guess he means trunk,” replied my oldest nephew. 

Recollections of my childish delight in rummaging an 
old trunk — it seems a century ago that I did it — 
caused me to smile sympathetically at Toddie, to his 
apparent great delight. “ How delightful it is to strike a 
sympathetic chord in child nature,” thought I; “how 
quickly the infant eye comprehends the look which 
precedes the verbal expression of an idea! Dear 
Toddie ! for years we might sit at one table, careless of 
each other’s words, but the casual mention of one of 
thy delights has suddenly brought our souls into that 
69 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

sweetness of all human communions. ‘An awfoo 
funny chunt’ seemed to annihilate suddenly all differ- 
ences of age, condition, and experience between the 
wee boy and myself, and — ” 

A direful thought struck me. I dashed upstairs 
and into my room. Yes, he did mean my trunk. I 
could see nothing funny about it — quite the contrary. 
The bond of sympathy between my nephew and my- 
self was suddenly broken. Looking at the matter 
from the comparative distance which a few weeks have 
placed between that day and this, I can see that I was 
unable to consider the scene before me with a calm and 
unprejudiced mind. I am now satisfied that the sudden 
birth and hasty decease of my sympathy with Toddie 
were striking instances of human inconsistency. My 
soul had gone out to his because he loved to rummage 
in trunks, and because I imagined he loved to see the 
monument of incongruous material which resulted 
from such an operation; the scene before me showed 
clearly that I had rightly divined my nephew’s nature. 
And yet my selfish instincts hastened to obscure my 
soul’s vision, and to prevent that joy which should 
ensue when “faith is lost in full fruition.” 

My trunk had contained nearly everything, for while 
a campaigner I had learned to reduce packing to an 
exact science. Now, had there been an atom of pride 
in my composition I might have glorified myself, for 
it certainly seemed as if the heap upon the floor could 
never have come out of a single trunk. Clearly, 
Toddie was more of a general connoisseur than an 
amateur in packing. The method of his work I 
70 


BUDGE AND TODDIE 


quickly discerned, and the discovery threw one light 
upon the size of the heap in front of my trunk. A 
dress hat and its case, when their natural relationship 
is dissolved, occupy nearly twice as much space as 
before, even if the former contains a blacking box not 
usually kept in it, and the latter a few cigars soaking 
in bay rum. The same might be said of a portable 
dressing case and its contents, bought for me in Vienna 
by a brother ex-soldier, and designed by an old Con- 
tinental campaigner to be perfection itself. The straps 
which prevented the cover from falling entirely back 
had been cut, broken, or parted in some way, and in 
its hollow lay my dress coat, tightly rolled up. Snatch- 
ing it up with a violent exclamation, and unrolling it, 
there dropped from it — one of those infernal dolls. 
At the same time a howl was sounded from the door- 
way. 

“You tookted my dolly out of her cradle — I want 
to wock my dolly — oo — oo — oo — ee — ee — ee — ! ” 

“You young scoundrel!” I screamed — yes, howled, 
I was so enraged — “I Ve a great mind to cut your 
throat this minute. What do you mean by meddling 
with my trunk?” 

“I — doe — know.” Outward turned Toddie’s lower 
lip; I believe the sight of it would move a Bengal tiger 
to pity, but no such thought occurred to me just then. 

“What made you do it?” 

“Be — cause.” 

“Because what?” 

“I — doe — know.” 

Just then a terrific roar arose from the garden. 

71 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Looking out, I saw Budge with a bleeding finger upon 
one hand, and my razor in the other; he afterward 
explained he had been making a boat, and that the 
knife was bad to him. To apply adhesive plaster to 
the cut was the work of but a minute, and I had barely 
completed this surgical operation when Tom’s gardener- 
coachman appeared and handed me a letter. It was 
addressed in Helen’s well-known hand, and read as 
follows (the passages in brackets were my own com- 
ments) : — 

Bloomdale, June 21, 1875. 

Dear Harry: — 

I’m very happy in the thought that you are with my 
darling children, and, although I’m having a lovely time 
here, I often wish I was with you. [Ump — so do I.] I want 
you to know the little treasures real well. [Thank you, but 
I don’t think I care to extend the acquaintanceship further 
than is absolutely necessary.] It seems to me so unnatural 
that relatives know so little of those of their own blood, 
and especially of the innocent little spirits whose existence 
is almost unheeded. [Not when there’s unlocked trunks 
standing about, sis.] 

Now I want to ask a favor of you. When we were boys 
and girls at home, you used to talk perfect oceans about 
physiognomy, and phrenology, and unerring signs of char- 
acter. I thought it was all nonsense then, but if you 
believe it now , I wish you’d study the children, and give 
me your well-considered opinion of them. [Perfect demons, 
ma’am; imps, rascals, bom to be hung — both of them.] 

I can’t get over the feeling that dear Budge is born for 
something grand. [Grand nuisance.] He is sometimes so 
thoughtful and so absorbed, that I almost fear the result of 
disturbing him; then, he has that faculty of perseverance 
which seems to be the only thing some men have lacked to 
make them great. [He certainly has it; he exemplified it 
while I was trying to get to sleep this morning.] 

Toddie is going to make a poet or a musician or an artist. 

72 


BUDGE AND TODDIE 

[That’s so; all abominable scamps take to some artistic 
pursuit as an excuse for loafing.] His fancies take hold of 
him very strongly. [They do — they do; “shee wheels go 
wound,” for instance.] He has not Budgie’s sublime earn- 
estness but he does n’t need it; the irresistible force with 
which he is drawn toward whatever is beautiful compen- 
sates for the lack. [Ah — perhaps that explains his opera- 
tion with my trunk.] But I want your own opinion, for I 
know you make more careful distinction in character than 
Ido. 

Delighting myself with the idea that I deserve most of 
the credit for the lots of reading you will have done by this 
time, and hoping I shall soon have a line telling me how 
my darlings are, I am, as ever, 

Your loving sister, 

Helen. 

Seldom have I been so roused by a letter as I was by 
this one, and never did I promise myself more genuine 
pleasure in writing a reply. I determined that it 
should be a masterpiece of analysis and of calm yet 
forcible expression of opinion. 

Upon one step, at any rate, I was positively deter- 
mined. Calling the girl, I asked her where the key 
was that locked the door between my room and the 
children. 

“Please, sir, Toddie threw it down the well. ,, 

“Is there a locksmith in the village? ” 

“No, sir; the nearest one is at Paterson.” 

“Is there a screwdriver in the house?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Bring it to me, and tell the coachman to get ready 
at once to drive me to Paterson.” 

The screwdriver was brought, and with it I removed 
the lock, got into the carriage, and told the driver to 
73 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

take me to Paterson by the hill road — one of the most 
beautiful roads in America. 

“Paterson!” exclaimed Budge. “Oh, there’s a 
candy store in that town; come on, Toddie.” 

“Will you?” thought I, snatching the whip and 
giving the horses a cut. “Not if I can help it. The 
idea of having such a drive spoiled by the clatter of 
such a couple!” 

Away went the horses, and up went a piercing shriek 
and a terrible roar. It seemed that both children 
must have been mortally hurt, and I looked out hastily, 
only to see Budge and Toddie running after the car- 
riage, and crying pitifully. It was too pitiful — I 
could not have proceeded without them, even if they 
had been inflicted with smallpox. The driver stopped 
of his own accord — he seemed to know the children’s 
ways and their results — and I helped Budge and Tod- 
die in, meekly hoping that the eye of Providence was 
upon me, and that so self-sacrificing an act would be 
duly passed to my credit. As we reached the hill road, 
my kindness to my nephews seemed to assume greater 
proportions, for the view before me was inexpressibly 
beautiful. The air was perfectly clear, and across two- 
score towns I saw the great metropolis itself, the silent 
city of Greenwood beyond it, the bay, the narrows, 
the sound, the two silvery rivers lying between me and 
the Palisades, and even, across and to the south of 
Brooklyn, the ocean itself. Wonderful effects of light 
and shadow, picturesque masses, composed of detached 
buildings, so far distant that they seemed huddled 
together; grim factories turned to beautiful palaces by 
74 


BUDGE AND TODDIE 

the dazzling reflection of sunlight from their window 
panes; great ships seeming in the distance to be toy- 
boats floating idly; — with no signs of life perceptible, 
the whole scene recalled the fairy stories read in my 
youthful days, of enchanted cities, and the illusion was 
greatly strengthened by the dragon-like shape of the 
roof of New York’s new post office, lying in the center 
of everything, and seeming to brood over all. 

“ Uncle Harry!” 

Ah, that was what I expected! 

“Uncle Harry!” 

“Well, Budge?” 

“I always think that looks like heaven.” 

“What does?” 

“Why, all that — from here over to that other sky 
’way back there behind everything, I mean. And I 
think that (here he pointed toward what probably was 
a photographer’s roof light) — that place where it ’s 
so shiny, is where God stays.” 

Bless the child ! The scent had suggested only 
elfindom to me, and yet I prided myself on my quick 
sense of artistic effects. 

“An’ over there where that awful bright little speck 
is,” continued Budge, “that ’s where dear little brother 
Phillie is; whenever I look over there, I see him putting 
his hand out.” 

“Dee ’ittle Phillie went to s’eep in a box, and de 
Lord took him to heaven,” murmured Toddie, putting 
together all he had seen and heard of death. Then he 
raised his voice and exclaimed : — 

“Ocken Hawwy, you know what Iz’he goin’ do 
75 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


when I be’s big man? 'Iz’he goin’ to have hosses an* 
tarridge, an’ Iz’he goin’ to wide over all ze chees an’ 
all ze houses an’ all ze world an’ evvyfing. An’ whole 
lots of little birdies is cornin’ in my tarridge an’ sing 
songs to me, an’ you can come too if you want to, an’ 
we ’ll have ice - cream an’ ’trawberries, an ’see ’ittle fishes 
swimmin’ down in ze water, an’ we ’ll get a g’eat big 
house that ’s all p’itty on the outshide an’ all p’itty on 
the inshide, an’ it ’ll all be ours an’ we ’ll do just evvy- 
fing we want to.” 

“Toddie, you ’re an idealist.” 

“Ain't a ’dealisht!” 

“Toddie ’s a goosey-gander,” remarked Budge, with 
great gravity. “Uncle Harry, do you think heaven ’s 
as nice as that place over there?” 

“Yes, Budge, a great deal nicer.” 

“Then why don’t we die an’ go there? I don’t want 
to go on livin’ fo’ever an’ ever. I don’t see why we 
don’t die right away; I think we ’ve lived enough of 
days.” 

“The Lord wants us to live until we get good and 
strong and smart, and do a great deal of good before 
we die, old fellow — that ’s why we don’t die right 
away.” 

“Uncle Harry, did you ever see the Lord? ” 

“No, Budge; he has been very close to me a good 
many times, but I never saw him.” 

“Well, I have; I see him every time I look up in the 
sky, and there ain’t nobody with me.” 

The driver crossed himself and whispered, “He ’s 
foriver a-sayin’ that, an’ be the powers, I belave him. 

76 


BUDGE AND TODDIE 

Sometimes ye ’d think that the howly saints themselves 
was a spakin’ whin that bye gits to goin’ on that way.” 

It was wonderful, Budge’s countenance seemed too 
pure to be of earth as he continued to express his ideas 
of the better land and its denizens. As for Toddie, his 
tongue was going incessantly, although in a tone 
scarcely audible; but when I chanced to catch his ex- 
pressions, they were so droll and fanciful that I took 
him upon my lap that I might hear him more distinctly. 
I even detected myself in the act of examining the men- 
tal draft of my proposed letter to Helen, and of being 
ashamed of it. But neither Toddie’s fancy nor Budge’s 
spirituality caused me to forget the principal object 
of my ride. I found a locksmith and left the lock to 
be fitted with a key; then we drove to the falls. Both 
boys discharged volleys of questions as we stood by 
the gorge, and the fact that the roar of the falling water 
prevented me from hearing them did not cause them to 
relax their efforts in the least. I walked to the hotel 
for a cigar, taking the children with me. I certainly 
spent no more than three minutes in selecting and light- 
ing a cigar, and asking the barkeeper a few questions 
about the falls; but when I turned, the children were 
missing, nor could I see them in any direction. Sud- 
denly, before my eyes, arose from the nearer brink of 
the gorge two yellowish discs, which I recognized as 
the hats of my nephews; then I saw between the discs 
and me two small figures lying upon the ground. I 
was afraid to shout, for fear of scaring them if they hap- 
pened to hear me. I bounded across the grass, in- 
dustriously raving and praying by turns. They were 
77 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


lying on their stomachs and looking over the edge of 
the cliff. I approached them on tiptoe, threw myself 
upon the ground, and grasped a foot of each child. 

“Oh, Uncle Harry!” screamed Budge in my ear, as 
I dragged him close to me, kissing and shaking him 
alternately; “I hunged over more than Toddie did.” 

“Well, I — I — I — I — I — I — hunged over a 
good deal, anyhow,” said Toddie in self-defense. 


I BECOME AN R. M. C. 

By Thomas Bailey Aldrich 

I N August we had two weeks’ vacation. It was about 
this time that I became a member of the Rivermouth 
Centipedes, a secret society composed of twelve of the 
Temple Grammar School boys. This was an honor to 
which I had long aspired, but being a new boy, I was 
not admitted to the fraternity until my character had 
fully developed itself. 

It was a very select society, the object of which I 
never fathomed, though I was an active member of the 
body during the remainder of my residence at River- 
mouth, and at one time held the onerous position of 
F. C. — First Centipede. Each of the elect wore a 
copper cent (some occult association being established 
between a cent apiece and a centipede!) suspended by 
a string around his neck. The medals were worn next 
the skin, and it was while bathing one day at Grave 
Point with Jack Harris and Fred Langdon that I had 
my curiosity roused to the highest pitch by a sight of 
these singular emblems. As soon as I ascertained the 
existence of a boys’ club, of course I was ready to die 
to join it. And eventually I was allowed to join. 

The initiation ceremony took place in Fred Lang- 
don’s barn, where I was submitted to a series of trials 
not calculated to soothe the nerves of a timorous boy. 
79 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Before being led to the Grotto of Enchantment — such 
was the modest title given to the loft over my friend’s 
woodhouse — my hands were securely pinioned and 
my eyes covered with a thick silk handkerchief. At 
the head of the stairs I was told in an unrecognizable, 
husky voice that it was not yet too late to retreat if I 
felt myself physically too weak to undergo the neces- 
sary tortures. I replied that I was not too weak, in a 
tone which I intended to be resolute, but which, in 
spite of me, seemed to come from the pit of my 
stomach. 

“It is well!” said the husky voice. 

I did not feel so sure about that; but having made 
up my mind to be a Centipede, a Centipede I was 
bound to be. Other boys had passed through the or- 
deal and lived; why should not I? 

A prolonged silence followed this preliminary exam- 
ination, and I was wondering what would come next, 
when a pistol fired off close by my ear deafened me for 
a moment. The unknown voice then directed me to 
take ten steps forward and stop at the word halt. I 
took ten steps, and halted. 

“Stricken mortal,” said a second husky voice, more 
husky, if possible, than the first; “if you had ad- 
vanced another inch you would have disappeared 
down an abyss three thousand feet deep!” 

I naturally shrunk back at this friendly piece of in- 
formation. A prick from some two-pronged instru- 
ment, evidently a pitchfork, gently checked my re- 
treat. I was then conducted to the brink of several 
other precipices and ordered to step over many dan- 
80 


I BECOME AN R. M. C. 

gerous chasms, where the result would have been in- 
stant death if I had committed the least mistake. I 
have neglected to say that my movements were ac- 
companied by dismal groans from different parts of the 
grotto. 

Finally I was led up a steep plank to what appeared 
to me an incalculable height. Here I stood breathless 
while the by-laws were read aloud. A more extraordi- 
nary code of laws never came from the brain of man. 
The penalties attached to the abject being who should 
reveal any of the secrets of the society were enough to 
make the blood run cold. A second pistol-shot was 
heard, the something I stood on sank with a crash be- 
neath my feet, and I fell two miles, as nearly as I 
could compute it. At the same instant the handker- 
chief was whisked from my eyes, and I found myself 
standing in an empty hogshead surrounded by twelve 
masked figures fantastically dressed. One of the con- 
spirators was really appalling with a tin saucepan on 
his head and a tiger-skin sleigh robe thrown over his 
shoulders. I scarcely need say that there were no 
vestiges to be seen of the fearful gulfs over which I had 
passed so cautiously. My ascent had been to the top 
of the hogshead and my descent to the bottom thereof. 
Holding one another by the hand and chanting a low 
dirge, the Mystic Twelve revolved about me. This con- 
cluded the ceremony. With a merry shout the boys 
threw off their masks, and I was declared a regularly in- 
stalled member of the R. M. C. 

I afterwards had a good deal of sport out of the club, 
for these initiations, as you may imagine, were some- 
81 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

times very comical spectacles, especially when the as- 
pirant for centipedal honors happened to be of a timid 
disposition. If he showed the slightest terror he was 
certain to be tricked unmercifully. One of our subse- 
quent devices — a humble invention of my own — was 
to request the blindfolded candidate to put out his 
tongue, whereupon the First Centipede would say, in a 
low tone, as if not intended for the ear of the victim, 
“ Diabolus, fetch me the red-hot iron ! ” The expedition 
with which that tongue would disappear was simply 
ridiculous. 

Our meetings were held in various barns, at no 
stated periods, but as circumstances suggested. Any 
member had a right to call a meeting. Each boy who 
failed to report himself was fined one cent. Whenever 
a member had reasons for thinking that another mem- 
ber would be unable to attend, he called a meeting. 
For instance, immediately on learning the death of 
Harry Blake’s great-grandfather, I issued a call. By 
these simple and ingenious measures we kept our treas- 
ury in a flourishing condition, sometimes having on 
hand as much as a dollar and a quarter. 

I have said that the society had no especial object. 
It is true there was a tacit understanding among us 
that the Centipedes were to stand by one another on 
all occasions, though I don’t remember that they did; 
but further than this we had no purpose, unless it was 
to accomplish as a body the same amount of mischief 
which we were sure to do as individuals. To mystify 
the staid and slow-going Rivermouthians was our fre- 
quent pleasure. Several of our pranks won us such a 
82 






















































































































I BECOME AN R. M. C. 

reputation among the townsfolk that we were credited 
with having a large finger in whatever went amiss in 
the place. 

One morning, about a week after my admission into 
the secret order, the quiet citizens awoke to find that 
the signboards of all the principal streets had changed 
places during the night. People who went trustfully to 
sleep in Currant Square opened their eyes in Honey- 
suckle Terrace. Jones’s Avenue at the north end had 
suddenly become Walnut Street, and Peanut Street 
was nowhere to be found. Confusion reigned. The town 
authorities took the matter in hand without delay, and 
six of the Temple Grammar School boys were summoned 
to appear before Justice Clapham. 

Having tearfully disclaimed to my grandfather all 
knowledge of the transaction, I disappeared from the 
family circle, and was not apprehended until late in 
the afternoon, when the Captain dragged me igno- 
miniously from the haymow and conducted me, more 
dead than alive, to the office of Justice Clapham. Here 
I encountered five other pallid culprits, who had been 
fished out of divers coalbins, garrets, and chicken 
coops, to answer the demands of the outraged laws. 
(Charley Marden had hidden himself in a pile of gravel 
behind his father’s house, and looked like a recently 
exhumed mummy.) 

There was not the least evidence against us, and, in- 
deed, we were wholly innocent of the offense. The 
trick, as was afterwards proved, had been played by a 
party of soldiers stationed at the fort in the harbor. 
We were indebted for our arrest to Master Conway, 
83 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

who had slyly dropped a hint, within the hearing of 
Selectman Mudge, to the effect that “young Bailey and 
his five cronies could tell something about them 
signs.” When he was called upon to make good his as- 
sertion, he was considerably more terrified than the 
Centipedes, though they were ready to sink into their 
shoes. 

At our next meeting it was unanimously resolved 
that Conway’s animosity should not be quietly sub- 
mitted to. He had sought to inform against us in the 
stagecoach business; he had volunteered to carry 
Pettingil’s “little bill” for twenty-four ice creams to 
Charley Marden’s father; and now he had caused us to 
be arraigned before Justice Clapham on a charge equally 
groundless and painful. After much noisy discussion a 
plan of retaliation was agreed upon. 

There was a certain slim, mild apothecary in the 
town by the name of Meeks. It was generally given 
out that Mr. Meeks had a vague desire to get married, 
but, being a shy and timorous youth, lacked the moral 
courage to do so. It was also well known that the 
Widow Conway had not buried her heart with the late 
lamented. As to her shyness, that was not so clear. 
Indeed, her attentions to Mr. Meeks, whose mother she 
might have been, were of a nature not to be misunder- 
stood, and were not misunderstood by anyone but Mr. 
Meeks himself. 

The widow carried on a dressmaking establishment 
at her residence on the corner opposite Meeks’s drug 
store, and kept a wary eye on all the young ladies 
from Miss Dorothy Gibbs’s Female Institute who 
84 


I BECOME AN R. M. C. 


patronized the shop for soda water, acid drops, and 
slate pencils. In the afternoon the widow was usually 
seen seated, smartly dressed, at her window upstairs, 
casting destructive glances across the street — the arti- 
ficial roses in her cap and her whole languishing manner 
saying as plainly as a label on a prescription, “To be 
Taken Immediately!” 

But Mr. Meeks did n’t take. 

The lady’s fondness and the gentleman’s blindness 
were topics ably handled at every sewing circle in the 
town. It was through these two luckless individuals 
that we proposed to strike a blow at the common 
enemy. To kill less than three birds with one stone did 
not suit our sanguinary purpose. We disliked the 
widow, not so much for her sentimentality as for being 
the mother of Bill Conway; we disliked Mr. Meeks, 
not because he was insipid, like his own sirups, but 
because the widow loved him; Bill Conway we hated 
for himself. 

Late one dark Saturday night in September we car- 
ried our plan into effect. On the following morning, as 
the orderly citizens wended their way to church past 
the widow’s abode, their sober faces relaxed at behold- 
ing over her front door the well-known gilt Mortar 
and Pestle which usually stood on the top of a pole 
on the opposite comer; while the passers on that side 
of the street were equally amused and scandalized at 
seeing a placard bearing the following announcement 
tacked to the druggist’s window shutters : — 

Wanted a Sempstress I 


85 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


The naughty cleverness of the joke (which I should 
be sorry to defend) was recognized at once. It spread 
like wildfire over the town, and, though the mortar 
and the placard were speedily removed, our triumph 
was complete. The whole community was on the broad 
grin, and our participation in the affair seemingly un- 
suspected. 

It was those wicked soldiers at the fort! 


HOW WE ASTONISHED THE 
RIVER MOUTHIANS 


By Thomas Bailey Aldrich 
MONG the few changes that have taken place in 



Rivermouth during the past twenty years there is 
one which I regret. I lament the removal of all those 
varnished iron cannon which used to do duty as posts 
at the corners of streets leading from the river. They 
were quaintly ornamental, each set upon end with a 
solid shot soldered into its mouth, and gave to that 
part of the town a picturesqueness very poorly atoned 
for by the conventional wooden stakes that have de- 
posed them. 

These guns (“old sogers,” the boys called them) 
had their story, like everything else in Rivermouth. 
When that everlasting last war — the war of 1812, 
I mean — came to an end, all the brigs, schooners, and 
barks fitted out at this port as privateers were as eager 
to get rid of their useless twelve-pounders and swivels 
as they had previously been to obtain them. Many of 
the pieces had cost large sums; and now they were little 
better than so much crude iron — not so good, in 
fact, for they were clumsy things to break up and melt 
over. The government did n’t want them; private 
citizens did n’t want them; they were a drug in the 
market. 


87 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


But there was one man, ridiculous beyond his gen- 
eration, who got it into his head that a fortune was to 
be made out of these same guns. To buy them all, to 
hold on to them until war was declared again (as he 
had no doubt it would be in a few months), and then 
sell out at fabulous prices — this was the daring idea 
that addled the pate of Silas Trefethen, “Dealer in 
E. & W. I. Goods and Groceries,” as the faded sign 
over his shop door informed the public. 

Silas went shrewdly to work buying up every old 
cannon he could lay hands on. His back yard was 
soon crowded with broken-down gun carriages, and his 
barn with guns, like an arsenal. When Silas’s purpose 
got wind it was astonishing how valuable that thing 
became which just now was worth nothing at all. 

“Ha, ha!” thought Silas; “somebody else is tryuT 
tu git control of the market. But I guess I ’ve got the 
start of him.” 

So he went on buying and buying, oftentimes pay- 
ing double the original price of the article. People 
in the neighboring towns collected all the worthless 
ordnance they could find, and sent it by the cartload 
to Rivermouth. 

When his barn was full, Silas began piling the rub- 
bish in his cellar, then in his parlor. He mortgaged the 
stock of his grocery store, mortgaged his house, his 
barn, his horse, and would have mortgaged himself, if 
anyone would have taken him as security, in order to 
carry on the grand speculation. He was a ruined man, 
and as happy as a lark. 

Surely poor Silas was cracked, like the majority of 
88 


WE ASTONISHED THE RIVERMOUTHIANS 

his own cannon. More or less crazy he must have been 
always. Years before this he purchased an elegant 
rosewood coffin, and kept it in one of the spare rooms in 
his residence. He even had his name engraved on the 
silver plate, leaving a blank after the word ‘‘Died.” 

The blank was filled up in due time, and well it was 
for Silas that he secured so stylish a coffin in his opu- 
lent days, for when he died his worldly wealth would 
not have bought him a pine box, to say nothing of rose- 
wood. He never gave up expecting a war with Great 
Britain. Hopeful and radiant to the last, his dying 
words were, England — war — few days — great 'profits! 

It was that sweet old lady, Dame Jocelyn, who told 
me the story of Silas Trefethen; for these things hap- 
pened long before my day. Silas died in 1817. 

At Trefethen’s death his unique collection came 
under the auctioneer’s hammer. Some of the larger 
guns were sold to the town, and planted at the corners 
of divers streets; others went off to the iron foundry; 
the balance, numbering twelve, were dumped down on 
a deserted wharf at the foot of Anchor Lane, where, 
summer after summer, they rested at their ease in the 
grass and fungi, pelted in autumn by the rain and an- 
nually buried by the winter snow. It is with these 
twelve guns that our story has to deal. 

The wharf where they reposed was shut off from the 
street by a high fence — a silent, dreamy old wharf, 
covered with strange weeds and mosses. On account 
of its seclusion and the good fishing it afforded, it was 
much frequented by us boys. 

There we met many an afternoon to throw out our 
89 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


lines, or play leap-frog among the rusty cannon. They 
were famous fellows in our eyes. What a racket they 
had made in the heyday of their unchastened youth! 
What stories they might tell now, if their puffy me- 
tallic lips could only speak! Once they were lively 
talkers enough; but there the grim sea dogs lay, silent 
and forlorn in spite of all their former growlings. 

They always seemed to me like a lot of venerable 
disabled tars, stretched out on a lawn in front of a 
hospital, gazing seaward, and mutely lamenting their 
lost youth. 

But once more they were destined to lift up their 
dolorous voices — once more ere they keeled over and 
lay speechless for all time. And this is how it befell. 

Jack Harris, Charley Marden, Harry Blake, and 
myself were fishing off the wharf one afternoon, when 
a thought flashed upon me like an inspiration. 

“I say, boys!” I cried, hauling in my line hand 
over hand, “I ’ve got something!” 

“What does it pull like, youngster?” asked Harris, 
looking down at the taut line and expecting to see a 
big perch at least. 

“Oh, nothing in the fish way,” I returned, laugh-' 
ing; “it’s about the old guns.” 

“What about them?” 

“I was thinking what jolly fun it would be to set 
one of the old sogers on his legs and serve him out a 
ration of gunpowder.” 

Up came the three lines in a jiffy. An enterprise 
better suited to the disposition of my companions could 
not have been proposed. 


90 







WE ASTONISHED THE RIVERMOUTHIANS 

In a short time we had one of the smaller cannon 
over on its back, and were busy scraping the green 
rust from the touch-hole. The mold had spiked the 
gun so effectually, that for a while we fancied we 
should have to give up our attempt to resuscitate the 
old soger. 

“A long gimlet would clear it out,” said Charley 
Marden, “if we only had one.” 

I looked to see if Sailor Ben’s flag was flying at the 
cabin door, for he always took in the colors when he 
went off fishing. 

“When you want to know if the Admiral ’s aboard, 
jest cast an eye to the buntin’, my hearties,” says 
Sailor Ben. 

Sometimes in a jocose mood he called himself the 
Admiral, and I am sure he deserved to be one. The 
Admiral’s flag was flying, and I soon procured a gimlet 
from his carefully kept tool chest. 

Before long we had the gun in working order. A 
newspaper lashed to the end of a lath served as a swab 
to dust out the bore. Jack Harris blew through the 
touch-hole and pronounced all clear. 

Seeing our task accomplished so easily, we turned 
our attention to the other guns, which lay in all sorts 
of postures in the rank grass. Borrowing a rope from 
Sailor Ben, we managed with immense labor to drag 
the heavy pieces into position and place a brick under 
each muzzle to give it the proper elevation. When we 
beheld them all in a row, like a regular battery, we 
simultaneously conceived an idea, the magnitude of 
which struck us dumb for a moment. 

91 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

Our first intention was to load and fire a single gun. 
How feeble and insignificant was such a plan compared 
to that which now sent the light dancing into our eyes ! 

“What could we have been thinking of?” cried Jack 
Harris. “We’ll give ’em a broadside, to be sure, if we 
die for it!” 

We turned to with a will, and before nightfall had 
nearly half the battery overhauled and ready for serv- 
ice. To keep the artillery dry we stuffed wads of 
loose hemp into the muzzles, and fitted wooden pegs 
to the touch-holes. 

At recess the next noon the Centipedes met in a corner 
of the schoolyard to talk over the proposed lark. 
The original projectors, though they would have liked 
to keep the thing secret, were obliged to make a club 
matter of it, inasmuch as funds were required for am- 
munition. There had been no recent drain on the 
treasury, and the society could well afford to spend a 
few dollars in so notable an undertaking. 

It was unanimously agreed that the plan should be 
carried out in the handsomest manner, and a subscrip- 
tion to that end was taken on the spot. Several of the 
Centipedes hadn’t a cent, excepting the one strung 
around their necks; others, however, were richer. I 
chanced to have a dollar, and it went into the cap 
quicker than lightning. When the club, in view of my 
munificence, voted to name the guns Bailey’s Battery 
I was prouder than I have ever been since over any- 
thing. 

The money thus raised, added to that already in 
the treasury, amounted to nine dollars — a fortune in 
92 


WE ASTONISHED THE RIVERMOUTHIANS 

those days; but not more than we had use for. This 
sum was divided into twelve parts, for it would not 
do for one boy to buy all the powder, nor even for us 
all to make our purchases at the same place. That 
would excite suspicion at any time, particularly at a 
period so remote from the Fourth of July. 

There were only three stores in town licensed to sell 
powder; that gave each store four customers. Not to 
run the slightest risk of remark, one boy bought his 
powder on Monday, the next boy on Tuesday, and so 
on until the requisite quantity was in our possession. 
This we put into a keg and carefully hid in a dry spot 
on the wharf. 

Our next step was to finish cleaning the guns, which 
occupied two afternoons, for several of the old sogers 
were in a very congested state indeed. Having com- 
pleted the task, we came upon a difficulty. To set off 
the battery by daylight was out of the question; it 
must be done at night; it must be done with fuses, for 
no doubt the neighbors would turn out after the first 
two or three shots, and it would not pay to be caught 
in the vicinity. 

Who knew anything about fuses? Who could ar- 
range it so the guns would go off one after the other, 
with an interval of a minute or so between? 

Theoretically we knew that a minute fuse lasted a 
minute; double the quantity, two minutes; but prac- 
tically we were at a standstill. There was but one 
person who could help us in this extremity — Sailor 
Ben. To me was assigned the duty of obtaining what 
information I could from the ex-gunner, it being left 
93 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 
to my discretion whether*, or not to intrust him with 
our secret. 

So one evening I dropped into the cabin and art- 
fully turned the conversation to fuses in general, and 
then to particular fuses, but without getting much out 
of the old boy, who was busy making a twine hammock. 
Finally, I was forced to divulge the whole plot. 

The Admiral had a sailor’s love for a joke, and en- 
tered at once, and heartily, into our scheme. He vol- 
unteered to prepare the fuses himself, and I left the 
labor in his hands, having bound him by several ex- 
traordinary oaths — such as ‘ ‘ Hope-I-may-die and 
“ Shiver-my-timbers ” — not to betray us, come what 
would. 

This was Monday evening. On Wednesday the 
fuses were ready. That night we were to unmuzzle 
Bailey’s Battery. Mr. Grimshaw saw that something 
was wrong somewhere, for we were restless and absent- 
minded in the classes, and the best of us came to grief 
before the morning session was over. When Mr. Grim- 
shaw announced “Guy Fawkes” as the subject for our 
next composition, you might have knocked down the 
Mystic Twelve with a feather. 

The coincidence was certainly curious, but when a 
man has committed or is about to commit an offense, 
a hundred trifles, which would pass unnoticed at an- 
other time, seem to point at him with convincing 
fingers. No doubt Guy Fawkes himself received many 
a start after he had got his wicked kegs of gunpowder 
neatly piled up under the House of Lords. 

Wednesday, as I have mentioned, was a half holiday, 
94 


WE ASTONISHED THE RIVERMOUTHIANS 

and the Centipedes assembled in my barn to decide 
on the final arrangements. These were as simple as 
could be. As the fuses were connected, it needed but 
one person to fire the train. Hereupon arose a discus- 
sion as to who was the proper person. Some argued that 
I ought to apply the match, the battery being christ- 
ened after me, and the main idea, moreover, being 
mine. Others advocated the claim of Phil Adams as the 
oldest boy. At last we drew lots for the post of honor. 

Twelve slips of folded paper, upon one of which was 
written “Thou art the man,” were placed in a quart 
measure, and thoroughly shaked; then each member 
stepped up and lifted out his destiny. At a given signal 
we opened our billets. “Thou art the man,” said the 
slip of paper trembling in my fingers. The sweets and 
anxieties of a leader were mine the rest of the after- 
noon. 

Directly after twilight set in Phil Adams stole down 
to the wharf and fixed the fuses to the guns, laying a 
train of powder from the principal fuse to the fence, 
through a chink of which I was to drop the match at 
midnight. 

At ten o’clock Rivermouth goes to bed. At eleven 
o’clock Rivermouth is as quiet as a country church- 
yard. At twelve o’clock there is nothing left with 
which to compare the stillness that broods over the 
little seaport. In the midst of this stillness I arose 
and glided out of the house like a phantom bent on 
an evil errand; like a phantom I flitted through the 
silent street, hardly drawing breath until I knelt down 
beside the fence at the appointed place. 

95 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

Pausing a moment for my heart to stop thumping, 
I lighted the match and shielded it with both hands until 
it was well under way, and then dropped the blazing 
splinter on the slender thread of gunpowder. 

A noiseless flash instantly followed, and all was dark 
again. I peeped through the crevice in the fence, and 
saw the main fuse spitting out sparks like a conjurer. 
Assured that the train had not failed, I took to my heels, 
fearful lest the fuse might burn more rapidly than we 
calculated, and cause an explosion before I could get 
home. This, luckily, did not happen. There * s a special 
Providence that watches over idiots, drunken men, 
and boys. 

I dodged the ceremony of undressing by plunging 
into bed, jacket, boots, and all. I am not sure I took 
off my cap; but I know that I had hardly pulled the 
coverlid over me, when “Boom!” sounded the first 
gun of Bailey’s Battery. 

I lay as still as a mouse. In less than two minutes 
there was another burst of thunder, and then another. 
The third gun was a tremendous fellow and fairly 
shook the house. 

The town was waking up. Windows were thrown 
open here and there and people called to each other 
across the streets asking what that firing was for. 

“Boom!” went gun number four. 

I sprung out of bed and tore off my jacket, for I 
heard the Captain feeling his way along the wall to 
my chamber. I was half undressed by the time he 
found the knob of the door. 

“I say, sir,” I cried, “do you hear those guns?” 

96 


WE ASTONISHED THE RIVERMOUTHIANS 

“Not being deaf, I do,” said the Captain, a little 
tartly — any reflection on his hearing always nettled 
him; “but what on earth they are for I can’t conceive. 
You had better get up and dress yourself.” 

“I’m nearly dressed, sir.” 

“Boom! Boom!” — two of the guns had gone off 
together. 

The door of Miss Abigail’s bedroom opened hastily, 
and that pink of maidenly propriety stepped out 
into the hall in her nightgown — the only indecorous 
thing I ever knew her to do. She held a lighted candle 
in her hand and looked like a very aged Lady Mac- 
beth. 

“O Dan’el, this is dreadful! What do you suppose it 
means?” 

“I really can’t suppose,” said the Captain, rubbing 
his ear; “but I guess it’s over now.” 

“Boom!” said Bailey’s Battery. 

Rivermouth was wide awake now, and half the male 
population were in the streets, running different ways, 
for the firing seemed to proceed from opposite points 
of the town. Everybody waylaid everybody else with 
questions; but as no one knew what was the occasion 
of the tumult, people who were not usually nervous 
began to be oppressed by the mystery. 

Some thought the town was being bombarded; some 
thought the world was coming to an end, as the pious 
and ingenious Mr. Miller had predicted it would; but 
those who could n’t form any theory whatever were the 
most perplexed. 

In the meanwhile Bailey’s Battery bellowed away 
97 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

at regular intervals. The greatest confusion reigned 
everywhere by this time. People with lanterns rushed 
hither and thither. The town watch had turned out 
to a man, and marched off, in admirable order, in the 
wrong direction. Discovering their mistake, they re- 
traced their steps, and got down to the wharf just as 
the last cannon belched forth its lightning. 

A dense cloud of sulphurous smoke floated over 
Anchor Lane, obscuring the starlight. Two or three 
hundred people, in various stages of excitement, 
crowded about the upper end of the wharf, not liking 
to advance farther until they were satisfied that the 
explosions were over. A board was here and there blown 
from the fence, and through the openings thus afforded 
a few of the more daring spirits at length ventured to 
crawl. 

The cause of the racket soon transpired. A suspicion 
that they had been sold gradually dawned on the 
Rivermouthians. Many were exceedingly indignant, 
and declared that no penalty was severe enough for 
those concerned in such a prank; others — and these 
were the very people who had been terrified nearly 
out of their wits — had the assurance to laugh, saying 
that they knew all along it was only a trick. 

The town watch boldly took possession of the ground, 
and the crowd began to disperse. Knots of gossips 
lingered here and there near the place, indulging in 
vain surmises as to who the invisible gunners could be. 

There was no more noise that night, but many a 
timid person lay awake expecting a renewal of the 
mysterious cannonading. The Oldest Inhabitant re- 
98 


WE ASTONISHED THE RIVERMOUTHIANS 

fused to go to bed on any terms, but persisted in sit- 
ting up in a rocking chair, with his hat and mittens 
on, until daybreak. 

I thought I should never get to sleep. The moment 
I drifted off in a doze I fell to laughing and woke 
myself up. But toward morning slumber overtook 
me, and I had a series of disagreeable dreams, in one of 
which I was waited upon by the ghost of Silas Trefethen 
with an exorbitant bill for the use of his guns. In an- 
other, I was dragged before a court-martial and sen- 
tenced by Sailor Ben, in a frizzled wig and three-cor- 
nered cocked hat, to be shot to death by Bailey’s 
Battery — a sentence which Sailor Ben was about to 
execute with his own hand, when I suddenly opened 
my eyes and found the sunshine lying pleasantly across 
my face. I tell you I was glad! 

That unaccountable fascination which leads the 
guilty to hover about the spot where his crime was com- 
mitted drew me down to the wharf as soon as I was 
dressed. Phil Adams, Jack Harris, and others of the 
conspirators were already there, examining with a 
mingled feeling of curiosity and apprehension the 
havoc accomplished by the battery. 

The fence was badly shattered and the ground 
plowed up for several yards around the place where 
the guns formerly lay — formerly lay, for now they 
were scattered every which way. There was scarcely 
a gun that had n’t burst. Here was one ripped open 
from muzzle to breech, and there was another with its 
mouth blown into the shape of a trumpet. Three of 
the guns had disappeared bodily, but on looking over 
99 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

the edge of the wharf we saw them standing on end in 
the tide mud. They had popped overboard in their 
excitement. 

“I tell you what, fellows,” whispered Phil Adams, 
“it is lucky we did n’t try to touch ’em off with punk. 
They’d have blown us all to flinders.” 

The destruction of Bailey’s Battery was not, un- 
fortunately, the only catastrophe. A fragment of one 
of the cannon had carried away the chimney of Sailor 
Ben’s cabin. He was very mad at first, but having 
prepared the fuse himself he did n’t dare complain 
openly. 

“I’d have taken a reef in the blessed stovepipe,” 
said the Admiral, gazing ruefully at the smashed chim- 
ney, “if I had known as how the Flagship was agoin’ 
to be under fire.” 

The next day he rigged out an iron funnel, which, 
being in sections, could be detached and taken in at a 
moment’s notice. On the whole, I think he was resigned 
to the demolition of his brick chimney. The stove- 
pipe was a great deal more shipshape. 

The town was not so easily appeased. The select- 
men determined to make an example of the guilty 
parties, and offered a reward for their arrest, holding 
out a promise of pardon to any one of the offenders who 
would furnish information against the rest. But there 
were no faint hearts among the Centipedes. Sus- 
picion rested for a while on several persons — on the 
soldiers at the fort; on a crazy fellow, known about 
town as “Bottle-Nose”; and at last on Sailor Ben. 

“Shiver my timbers!” cried that deeply injured in- 
100 


WE ASTONISHED THE RI VERMOUTHI AN S 

dividual. “Do you suppose, sir, as I have lived to 
sixty year, an* ain’t got no more sense than to go for 
to blaze away at my own upper riggin’? It does n’t 
stand to reason.” 

It certainly did not seem probable that Mr. Watson 
would maliciously knock over his own chimney, and 
Lawyer Hackett, who had the case in hand, bowed him- 
self out of the Admiral’s cabin convinced that the 
right man had not been discovered. 

People living by the sea are always more or less super- 
stitious. Stories of spectre ships and mysterious bea- 
cons, that lure vessels out of their course and wreck 
them on unknown reefs, were among the stock legends 
of Ri vermouth; and not a few people in the town 
were ready to attribute the firing of those guns to some 
supernatural agency. The Oldest Inhabitant remem- 
bered that when he was a boy a dim-looking sort of 
schooner hove to in the offing one foggy afternoon, 
fired off a single gun that did n’t make any report, and 
then crumbled to nothing, spar, mast, and hulk, like a 
piece of burnt paper. 

The authorities, however, were of the opinion that 
human hands had something to do with the explosions, 
and they resorted to deep-laid stratagems to get hold 
of the said hands. One of their traps came very 
near catching us. They artfully caused an old brass 
fieldpiece to be left on a wharf near the scene of our 
late operations. Nothing in the world but the lack of 
money to buy powder saved us from falling into the 
clutches of the two watchmen who lay secreted for a 
week in a neighboring sail loft. 

101 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


It was many a day before the midnight bombard- 
ment ceased to be the town talk. The trick was so 
audacious and on so grand a scale that nobody thought 
for an instant of connecting us lads with it. Suspi- 
cion at length grew weary of lighting on the wrong 
person, and as conjecture — like the physicians in the 
epitaph — was in vain, the Rivermouthians gave up 
the idea of finding out who had astonished them. 

They never did find out, and never will, unless they 
read this veracious history. If the selectmen are still 
disposed to punish the malefactors, I can supply Lawyer 
Hackett with evidence enough to convict Pepper 
Whitcomb, Phil Adams, Charley Marden, and the 
other honorable members of the Centipede Club. But 
really I don’t think it would pay now. 


THE BARRING OF THE DOOR 

By Eva March Tappan 

H AVE you gone clean daft, goodwife?” 

“I’ve been a-thinking, goodman.” 

“I never do that, and there was none of our folks 
that ever got up in the night to think. And what are 
you stirring the fire for, goodwife?” 

“To make it burn, goodman.” 

“Our folks never stirred the fire in the night. What 
are you going to do, goodwife?” 

“I’m going to make a white pudding, goodman.” 

“ Our folks never made white puddings in the night. 
And what’ll you do then, goodwife?” 

“Then I’ll make a black pudding, goodman.” 

“Did ever a man have such a wife!” exclaimed 
her goodman. “What are you making it for, good- 
wife?” 

“For people to eat, goodman.” 

“Our folks did n’t eat in the night, goodwife,” said 
her puzzled goodman. 

“No, but there may be those a-coming that will eat 
by day, and what should I do if I had n’t any white 
puddings and if I had n’t any black puddings, good- 
man?” 

“People did n’t come to see our folks when we did n’t 
have any puddings, goodwife.” 

103 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“That ’s because you always had them, goodman.” 

“I never thought of that, goodwife. I could n’t think 
like that by daylight.” 

And so the goodwife raked away the ashes and blew 
the fire and pulled the crane forward and hung a heavy 
iron pot on it that was full of water fresh from the 
well; and then she brought out a great wooden bowl, 
and into it she put more different things than one could 
dream of in a month of Saturday mornings. She stirred 
them and rolled them and twisted them and pulled 
them and mixed them and seasoned them and pounded 
them and kneaded them and shook them, until they 
were so confused that they did not know whether they 
were several things or one thing. But the goodwife was 
a wise woman and she knew. She gave a little pat and 
then a little toss, and there was the pudding round as 
a ball, and she tied it into a cloth and put it into the 
iron pot to boil. 

This was the white pudding. Then came the black, 
and that was much larger than the white, because black 
flour did not cost so much as white flour. The water 
in the iron pot was boiling out, and the goodwife 
went to the well for more. 

“Bar the door, goodwife; you’ve left it open,” said 
her goodman. 

“That’s because I did not shut it,” retorted the 
goodwife. 

“Our folks always shut the door when the wind blew 
cold from the north and the east.’ 

“Well, there ’s one of your folks here now,” said his 
goodwife. “You would n’t ask a woman with her hands 
104 


THE BARRING OF THE DOOR 


in a pudding to go and shut the door, now would you 
really, goodman?” 

“But you left it open,” said her goodman. “Our 
folks always shut the door when they left it open.” 

“I don’t,” said his goodwife. “When I leave it 
open, it is open; and it’ll be open for this hundred 
years if you wait for me to shut it. And I won’t say 
another word,” she added, “till you get up and bar 
the door, and not let your goodwife stand and make 
a pudding all a-shiver.” 

“And I won’t say another word till you get up and 
bar the door and not let your goodman lie in bed all 
a-shiver.” 

“You’ll have to ask for some of my pudding in the 
morning.” 

“And you’ll have to ask me to split some more 
wood to-night, or your pudding won’t be done.” 

“Then I’ll eat pudding and you may eat wood,” 
said his goodwife, “and the one that speaks first shall 
get up and bar the door.” 

Away down the lane were two gentlemen thieves who 
had been robbing a rich man’s house. 

“Pretty heavy lugging, this great bag of silver,” 
said one. 

“Heavier lugging, this great bag of gold,” said the 
other. 

“I’ll ease you of it,” said the first. “We’ll make a 
bet and I ’ll win. There ’s a light up the lane. If it is a 
poor man’s house, I’ll give you my bag; and if it’s a 
rich man’s house, you give me yours.” So they crept 
softly up to the cottage and peeped in at the door. 

105 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“There’s no one there but a sick man in bed and a 
woman boiling a pudding,” said one. 

“I like the smell of that pudding. Let’s leave our 
bags under the hedge and go in and ask for some,” 
whispered the other. 

“We’ll ask first whether they are rich or poor,” 
said the first, “and then we’ll know who’ll have to 
carry the bags. I think they’re poor, for they have to 
work by day and cook by night.” 

“And I think they’re rich, or else they wouldn’t 
have puddings enough to cook all day and all night 
too,” rejoined the other. So the two gentlemen thieves 
crept nearer and nearer to the house. They laid their 
bags down softly under the hedge and then walked 
boldly up to the door. 

“Is this a rich man’s house or is it a poor?” they 
asked. The goodman frowned at them and the good- 
wife smiled at them, but neither of them spoke a word 
for the barring of the door. 

“It’s a rich man’s house,” said one of the gentlemen 
thieves. “See all the good things she’s been putting 
into the pudding!” 

“It’s a poor man’s house,” retorted the other. 
“Look at the old man’s beard! He’s not been shaved 
for a good twelvemonth.” Then, for the pudding kept 
on smelling better and better, one of the gentlemen 
thieves pleaded : — 

“Goodwife, we be two poor travelers. Could you 
give us a bit of your pudding? It’s we that have been 
hard at work this night.” 

What the goodwife would have said, if she had said 
106 


THE BARRING OF THE DOOR 

anything, no one knows, but she dared not speak at all, 
for her goodman was grinning at her and pointing to 
the door. The two gentlemen thieves went to the great 
iron pot and took out the puddings on the points of 
their swords, and held them up over the white scoured 
floor to drain. Then they sat down to the table and 
cut off great pieces of them. First they ate the white 
pudding and then they ate the black, though that was 
not very well done, for the fire had given out because 
there was no more wood. The goodman smiled and 
said to himself : — 

“That’s what she has for getting up to think in the 
night after the moon has gone down over the poplar 
tree behind the well. Our folks never got up in the 
night to think.” The goodwife sat on a bench in the 
comer of the fireplace watching the two gentlemen 
thieves devouring her nice puddings. 

“And if my sister and my sister’s goodman and 
the eleven children should come to-morrow, there 
would n’t be bite or sup for them,” she said to herself. 

At last the two gentlemen thieves had finished eating 
the puddings. “Hark!” whispered one. “Isn’t that 
the sound of a horse’s hoofs? We’d better be going.” 

“I’ll go after I’ve kissed the goodwife,” said the 
other. “And do you shave off the goodman’s beard.” 

“There’s no hot water,” objected the first. 

“Take the pudding broth,” said the other. 

Then the goodman jumped out of bed, seized the 
iron pot, and flung the hot broth into the faces of the 
two gentlemen thieves. 

“You would kiss my wife before my eyes, would 
107 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

you?” he cried, “and scald me with pudding broth!” 
But the goodwife sprang up from the chimney corner 
and clapped her hands and gave three skips on the 
floor. 

“Goodman, you’ve said the first word! Now go 
and bar the door.” 

As for the two gentlemen thieves, they thought that 
the goodman and the goodwife had suddenly gone 
crazy, and they ran for their lives, slamming the door 
behind them, a thing which neither thieves nor gen- 
tlemen are accustomed to do. They ran down the lane, 
over the hedge, into the briers, across the meadow, over 
a brook, through the high grass, until the first thing 
that they knew, they were in the middle of a pond, and 
they had to scramble out as best they could, for they 
did not dare to call to anyone to help them. 

The next morning when the goodwife threw open 
the door and went to get a pail of fresh water, she saw 
down under the hedge two loaded bags, one full of silver 
and the other full of gold. 

“Goodman, come out here!” she cried. “There’s a 
bag of gold for the white pudding, and there’s a bag 
of silver for the black; and I’m going to make a pud- 
ding every night of my life.” 

“None of our folks ever did,” said her goodman. 


THE KING AND THE MILLER 
OF MANSFIELD 

By Eva March Tappan 

PART I 

T HE young hunter had lost his way. The courtiers 
were out of sight; not a sound of their horns could 
be heard, and every minute the forest grew darker and 
darker. Up and down he wandered till it was far into 
the night. The owl called lonesomely from the top of 
the blasted pine, and in the pale, silver rays of the 
moonlight the young hunter fancied that he could see 
all kinds of strange creatures mocking him, and he 
heard strange sounds that he had never heard by day or 
when his friends were around him. At last there was 
one sound that he knew. It was the beat of a horse’s 
hoofs on the forest path, as some rider jogged along on 
a belated errand. The young hunter called out gladly to 
the unknown horseman : — 

“Pray tell me, sir, what is the nearest way to Notting- 
ham?” 

“What do such as you want at Nottingham?” de- 
manded the rider. “The king’s court is at Nottingham, 
and I’ll bet the bag pudding that my dame will give 
me for supper this night that you would no more ven- 
ture to go to Nottingham than I would to ask the king 
to eat supper with me.” 


109 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“Nevertheless, I do want to go to Nottingham,” 
said the young hunter, “and I was on my way there 
when I lost my road.’* 

“I’m not the man to think that you lost your way 
for nothing,” growled the rider. 

“And what do you take me for?” asked the young 
hunter lightly, for his spirits were rising now that he 
had even so surly a companion as this. “You have n’t 
had a glimpse of me. Wait and I’ll come out farther 
into the moonlight.” 

“You stand back there in the shadow,” ordered the 
countryman. “You talk of going to the king’s court, 
you do, but you’ll never go there unless the sheriff 
takes you. I know what you are; you’re a gentleman 
thief, and if you come one step nearer, I ’ll crack your 
crown for you. I ’m the miller of Mansfield, I am, and 
I know good corn from poor.” 

“You’re half in the right,” said the young hunter, 
“when you call me a gentleman thief, for I’m not a 
thief, but I’m a gentleman, and will you not give a 
gentleman a night’s lodging?” 

“I’ll warrant you have fine clothes,” admitted the 
miller, “and a sword, but I doubt if you have one 
groat in your purse. I’ve been to London town, I 
have, and I ’ve seen young fellows before that wore all 
their fortune on their back.” 

“But I have gold enough to pay for all I ask,” de- 
clared the young hunter. “Even if it was as much as 
forty pence, I could pay it,” and he softly jingled the 
golden coins in his pocket. The miller hesitated, for the 
sound of the coins was music to him. 

110 


THE KING AND MILLER OF MANSFIELD 

“Maybe you stole the money,” said he, “but that’s 
the king’s business, not mine. A little bad corn does 
not always show in the grist.” 

“ I swear to you by the king’s crown that I’ma true 
man, and here’s my hand on it.” 

“Nay, not so fast,” said the miller of Mansfield. 
“I’ll not take your hand yet a while. You may be a 
wood fiend, after all. My wife’s cousin’s goodman saw 
one once, or he would if he had n’t shut his eyes because 
he knew by the itching of his great toe that something 
uncanny was coming.” 

They went along together to the miller’s house; and 
when the door was opened, there came out such a smell 
of good things a-cooking that the young hunter was 
more hungry than ever. 

“Pray, my good host, let us have some of your good- 
wife’s supper,” said he. 

“Where are your manners?” demanded the miller. 
“Didn’t you ever have any bringing up? If you’d 
been to London town even once, you would know 
that you must wait till the goodman of the house 
bids you fall to. I have n’t had a look at you yet. 
Stand up here and let me see what kind of fellow 
you are. Dick, do you light a pine knot, and hold it 
up close.” 

“Look your fill,” said the young hunter good-na- 
turedly, “but see to it you singe not a hair of my mus- 
tache, or the king will be after you.” 

“Ha, ha, but you’re a droll fellow,” laughed the 
miller. “You’ve an honest face, and I know good 
corn from bad, I do. You may stay with us the night, 
111 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

and I ’ll give you no worse bedfellow than my son Dick 
here.” 

“Your mill is turning too fast, goodman,” interrupted 
his wife. “He’s a handsome youth, but who knows 
but he’s a vagabond, and we’ll get ourselves into 
trouble by harboring him? Show me your passport, 
young man,” she added, “and we’ll know that you’re 
no runaway servant.” 

Then the young hunter, with his hat in his hand, 
made so low a bow that the long white plume swept the 
earthen floor, and he said : — 

“I have no passport, and indeed I am afraid that 
I never earned a penny in my life. I ’m only a courtier, 
but my gold ’s my own; my father left it me.” 

Then the miller’s wife beckoned her husband to a 
dark corner, and whispered : — 

“Indeed, goodman, you mustn’t be hard on him. 
He’s one of those helpless younkers that have to live 
on what their fathers earned; not like our own Dick here, 
who can run a mill as well as yourself. He belongs to 
good people; you can see that by his fine clothes. Don’t 
you be hard on him.” 

“Who but you ever thought of being hard on him?” 
retorted the miller of Mansfield. “It takes a woman 
to judge a man by his dress. You can’t always tell the 
taste of corn by its color. Now I can see he ’s of good 
kin, for he knows how to behave to his betters.” 

The goodwife turned to the young hunter. 

“Young man,” said she, “you’re welcome here, and 
though I say it as should n’t, you ’ll be as well lodged as 
if you were in the king’s palace. I know what I’m 
112 


THE KING AND MILLER OF MANSFIELD 

telling you, for my goodman, he saw it once when 
he happened to be in London town. I ’ll lay fresh straw 
on the bed with my own hands, and I’ll put on good 
brown hempen sheets, and they ’re much finer than any 
other sheets in the whole village. Mayhap you’re not 
used to such fine weaving, and you ’ll have to be careful 
not to kick them out. You don’t wear your sword to 
bed, do you?” 

The young hunter laughed, and said he wouldn’t 
this time, anyway, and then they sat down to their 
supper. 

Such a supper had the hungry young fellow never 
tasted in all his life. There was hot bag pudding, and 
good apple pie, and fine strong ale in a brown wooden 
bowl that passed around the table from one to 
another. 

“And so you’re a courtier, are you?” said the miller. 
“Now courtiers wear satin clothes; and when they walk 
about, the pearls drop out of the folds; and they wear 
around their necks gold chains big enough to hold an 
ox; and the buckles on their shoes are all covered with 
rubies; and they wear crowns like the king’s, only 
they’re not quite half so high. I know, for a man in 
London town told me so.” 

Dick sat staring with his mouth wide open, but the 
goodwife nodded wisely: — 

“ Yes, he knows. It is n’t everybody that has been 
to London town.” 

“I’ve nothing against courtiers, though,” said the 
miller, “ so here ’s to your health and to all the courtiers 
that you ever saw.” 


113 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“I thank you in faith,” responded the young man. 
“1 pledge you in your own good nut-brown ale, and I 
am heartily grateful to you for my welcome.” 

“Now that we’re all good friends,” said the miller, 
“goodwife, bring on lightfoot.” So the goodwife went 
to a little pantry, and pushed away a tiny slide that 
was hidden in the wall, and brought forth a venison 
pasty. 

“Eat all you will,” quoth the miller, “but make no 
waste. You’ll not find this in many houses.” 

“In truth,” said the courtier, “I never ate so dainty 
a thing before.” 

“You may well say that,” declared Dick, “but it’s 
no dainty to us; we have it every day.” 

“And where do you buy such fare as this?” asked 
the guest. 

“Buy it!” said the miller, “never a penny do we pay 
for it; we — well, just now and then we make free with 
the king’s deer over there in Sherwood Forest.” 

“This must be venison, then.” 

“Any fool would know that,” said Dick. “We’re 
never without two or three good fat ones hung up in 
the roof; but don’t you ever say a word of it, wherever 
you go, for we should all be hanged if the king should 
hear of it.” 

“Never a bit more than he knows now shall he ever 
know from me,” promised the stranger; and after they 
had each drunk a great cup of ale with baked apples in 
it, they went to bed, and a sounder sleep had the young 
courtier than ever before in all his life. 

Next morning, as the stranger was mounting his 
114 


THE KING AND MILLER OF MANSFIELD 
fine gray horse, a great party of nobles came riding 

by. 

“We’ve found the king!” they cried, and then, one 
and all, they flung themselves down on their knees 
before the young man and asked pardon that they had 
lost him the night before in the forest. 

As to the miller and his goodwife and their son Dick, 
they were frightened almost to death lest they should 
be hanged for killing the king’s deer. The miller stood 
with his hands close to his sides, shaking and quaking; 
and his goodwife was wringing her hands and giving 
forth such shrieks that the courtiers forgot court eti- 
quette and put their fingers in their ears. As for Dick, 
he was too amazed at all the wonderful happenings to 
be afraid, and he stood with his toes turned in and his 
tongue hung out, waiting to see what would come 
next. 

The king gravely drew his sword and looked at the 
miller. 

Then the miller fell upon his knees, and put his hand 
over his eyes, and began to shriek louder than his wife, 
and Dick turned his toes in till they touched. His tongue 
hung down to the end of his chin, and he opened his 
mouth so wide that you could not see his forehead, and 
he, too, began to howl. The king raised his sword, 
but when it came down it touched the miller lightly 
on the shoulder, and the king said: — 

“I here dub thee knight. Rise, Sir John of Mans- 
field.” 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


PART II 

“That was a fine progress, Your Majesty,” said the 
Prime Minister. 

“Yes,” said the king wearily. 

“Your Majesty held a brilliant court at Notting- 
ham,” said the Lord Chamberlain. 

“Yes,” said the king. 

“What an original idea it was to present Your 
Majesty with that cheese as big as a cartwheel,” said 
the Lord Steward. 

“Yes,” said the king. 

“The hunting was much better about Nottingham 
than it is around Westminster,” said the Master of the 
Horse. 

“Yes,” said the king. 

“The people all along the way were so happy in 
seeing Your Majesty,” said the Grand Falconer. 

“Yes,” said the king. 

“What shall we say next?” whispered the Prime 
Minister to the Lord Chamberlain; and the Lord Cham- 
berlain whispered it to the Lord Steward; and the 
Lord Steward whispered it to the Master of the Horse; 
and the Master of the Horse whispered it to the Grand 
Falconer; and the Grand Falconer whispered it to the 
First Cupbearer; and the First Cupbearer whispered 
it to the Page of Honor; and the Page of Honor whis- 
pered it to the Cook; and the Cook whispered it to the 
Scullion. 

“The king wants something to do,” said the Scullion; 

116 


THE KING AND MILLER OF MANSFIELD 

and this answer was whispered halfway back to the 
Prime Minister. It did not go any farther because the 
king suddenly turned upon them and demanded : — 

“What are you all about? I never saw such stupid 
people. Why don’t you amuse me?” And he frowned 
at the Prime Minister. 

“Stupid!” whispered the Prime Minister over his 
shoulder to the Lord Chamberlain; and the Lord Cham- 
berlain, under pretense of an especially profound obei- 
sance to the king, took the opportunity to kick the 
Lord Steward slyly. The Lord Steward pinched the 
Master of the Horse; and the Master of the Horse stuck 
a pin into the Grand Falconer; and the Grand Falconer 
stepped on the toes of the First Cupbearer; and the 
First Cupbearer pulled a stray lock of hair of the Page 
of Honor; and the Page of Honor slipped out to the 
kitchen and dropped a pinch of salt into the Cook’s 
jelly; and the Cook boxed the Scullion’s ears. 

“Ow!” cried the Scullion, and his voice rang out all 
the way from the kitchen to the king’s hall. 

“What’s that?” asked the king. “That’s the first 
sensible remark I’ve heard to-day. Go and bring him 
in.” 

So the Scullion, still rubbing his red ear, was brought 
in and made a bow before the king. 

“Say something,” said the king. “These people 
can’t converse.” 

And the Scullion, trembling with anger at the Cook 
and with fear of the king, managed to stammer out: — 

“Which part of Your Majesty’s progress did Your 
Majesty enjoy most?” 


11.7 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


The king burst out laughing. “You’re a brave fel- 
low,” said he. “These simpletons didn’t make a 
remark that I could n’t answer with 4 Yes,’ and a king 
ought to have a chance to talk. Don’t you think so?” 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said the boy, with a low bow, 
more graceful than the first, for his ear had stopped 
smarting, and he did not have to rub it any longer. 

“I suppose the Prime Minister and the Lord Cham- 
berlain and all the rest of them are thinking that a 
scullion ought not to enter their company,” said the 
king, 44 and probably they are right; so I’ll make you 
my own Royal Messenger. You’re a good-looking 
fellow, and I rather think you can talk the court chatter, 
can’t you?” 

“I will strive to do what Your Majesty bids me,” 
said the Royal Messenger discreetly. 

“Well,” said the king, “go to the court tailor and 
get a suit of blue velvet and silver lace, and have your 
hair curled, and be here before the wind changes.” 

The boy was off in a moment, and the king turned 
to the Prime Minister and the rest of them, his ill 
humor all gone, and said : — 

44 That boy has put something into my head, and 
we’re going to have the merriest jest you ever heard of. 
To-morrow is St. George’s day, and we’ll invite our 
new knight, Sir John of Mansfield, to the feast, and 
he shall bring with him my bedfellow, his son Dick.” 

Soon the new Royal Messenger returned in his blue 
velvet suit all shining with silver lace. His hair had 
been curled and brushed till it shone like a duck’s 
wing. 


118 


THE KING AND MILLER OF MANSFIELD 

“Would Your Majesty be graciously pleased to 
favor me with any commissions? ” asked the lad. 

The King laughed aloud: — 

“You’ve caught it,” said he, with tears of merri- 
ment in his eyes. “You can talk it as well as the best 
of them. You’re an honor to your velvet. Now go to 
Mansfield and invite the miller, Sir John, and his wife 
and son to dine at court to-morrow.” 

It did not take the Royal Messenger long to find the 
miller. He dropped on one knee before Sir John, and 
began the speech that he had made up on the way : — 

“ God save Your Worship and grant your lady what- 
ever her heart does most desire, and give the young 
gentleman, your son Richard, that sweet, gentle, and 
gallant young squire, good fortune and happiness all 
the days of his life. Our gracious king sends you 
greeting, and bids you come to his court to-morrow, 
St. George’s day, to dine with him.” 

“Whatever shall we do?” cried the miller in alarm. 

“Why, thank the young man kindly,” said his wife, 
“and say that we will go if there’s not too much corn 
comes in to be ground.” 

“You’d better not fail,” said the Royal Messenger. 
“I tell you there’s the biggest kind of a feast, and I 
know, for I’ve been in the kitchen and seen it. The 
Cook’s uncommon good to me now, he is.” 

“I’m afraid the king remembers — is angry,” 
stammered the miller. 

“Yes, I know he’ll hang us,” said Dick. 

“And I don’t know how one should behave at court,” 
muttered the miller. 


119 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“Well, there, I wouldn’t own it if I didn’t,” said 
his goodwife. “ A man that’s had the advantages that 
you have. A man that’s been to London twice ought 
to know how to eat dinner. My goodman — I mean Sir 
John — has eaten with a king before now,” she an- 
nounced proudly to the young fellow. 

Then the miller remembered that he was a great 
man and need not be afraid of anybody. He straight- 
ened himself up, with his chin so high in the air that 
he could hardly see the Royal Messenger, and made a 
fine speech. 

“In truth, young man, you have contented My 
Worship right well, and here are three farthings to 
reward you. See to it that you do not spend them fool- 
ishly on your way home, but show them to the king. 
I want the king to see that I am not stingy with my 
money,” he whispered to his goodwife. 

“And what shall I say to the king?” asked the mes- 
senger. 

“Say to him — well, let me see — tell him that My 
Worship and My Ladyship and My Worship’s son 
Richard will be pleased to come to dinner, and that 
we ’ll bring good appetites with us.” 

Then the young man rode away, and the miller turned 
to his goodwife and grumbled : — 

“That’s only the beginning of it; first, the three 
farthings, and now we must buy new clothes, and we 
ought to have riding horses, and servants, and fine 
bridles and saddles, and twenty other things besides; 
and mayhap they ’ll want Dick here to marry one of the 
king’s princesses, and then we’d have to buy cakes 
120 


THE KING AND MILLER OF MANSFIELD 


and ale for the wedding, and set him up in a cottage 
of his own. There’s no end to it when a man once be- 
comes great,” and the miller heaved a deep sigh. 

“Now you just cheer up,” said his goodwife. “Our 
Dick would n’t take any woman that could n’t make a 
bag pudding, and like as not those princesses never saw 
a bag pudding in their lives. I remember one day when 
the king chanced to sup with us,” she added loftily, 
“that he said he had never seen one before. You 
need n’t worry. I ’ll brush up your coat, and I ’ll turn 
my russet gown, and we’ll put a pillion on one of the 
mill horses, and Dick can take the other, and we’ll 
ride off as fine as a rooster on a fence.” 

So early the next morning they set out in stately 
array for the king’s palace. Dick rode first. He had 
put a cock’s feather in his cap for luck, for he was still 
a little fearful of what might happen. Behind him 
came the miller and his goodwife on a stout mill 
horse, the miller just a little timid, but his goodwife 
quite at her ease, and convinced of her own elegance, 
for she had turned her russet gown fully two years 
sooner than she had intended, and if that did not make 
her elegant, I don’t know what would. The king and 
his nobles all came out to meet them. 

“Welcome, Sir Knight,” cried the king, “and wel- 
come to your lady fair in all her fine array! Wel- 
come, too, to the brave young squire!” 

“And so you have n’t forgotten me,” said Dick, 
put quite at his ease by the king’s hearty greeting. 

“How could I forget my own bedfellow?” asked the 
king, laughing. 


m 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“I remember you took more than your half of the 
bed,” said Dick. 

The king and the courtiers laughed, and then the 
king gave one hand to the miller and the other to his 
wife, and with Dick following after, they all went to 
the banquet hall; and whenever the king spoke to the 
goodwife, she would let go his hand and make a curtsy, 
and then give the court ladies around her a look that 
said as plainly as words : — 

“I know how to behave to a king.” 

Down to the table they all sat, and many a dish of 
dainties was brought on. The feast lasted so long that 
once the miller actually went to sleep for a moment, 
but his wife sat up stiff and straight and ate whatever 
was given to her. Dick sat back in his chair, looking 
crosser and crosser, and saying, “No, I won’t” to al- 
most every dish. There was wine and ale and beer, 
and by and by the king lifted a bowl of wine and 
said : — 

“Here’s to your health, Sir John, and your kind lady, 
and your son Dick, and I thank you heartily for the 
good cheer that you gave me”; and he added slyly, “I 
wish that we had some of your lightfoot here.” 

Then Dick blustered out : — 

“That’s what I call downright knavery, to eat it 
and then go away and tell.” 

“Oh, don’t be angry,” pleaded the king, laughing. 
“I thought you would take it in jest. Are n’t you going 
to drink my health in some wine or some ale?” 

“Not till I’ve had my dinner,” growled Dick sulkily. 
“You give us such a mess of silly little dishes. There’s 
122 


THE KING AND MILLER OF MANSFIELD 

nothing to them, and one good bag pudding is worth 
them all.” 

“That bag pudding was good,” said the king, “and 
I wish I had one now.” 

“T is n’t everybody that has his wits about him,” 
said Dick, “but I have.” And while the miller looked 
anxious, and the miller’s wife looked proud at seeing 
her son and the king talking together so familiarly, and 
while the court ladies laughed till their lofty head- 
dresses shook most alarmingly, and the nobles almost 
rolled from their chairs, Dick pulled out a great bag 
pudding from his pocket. The king pretended to 
snatch at it, but Dick was ready. 

“No, sir,” said he; “you may have all your stuff in 
the little dishes; this is meat for your betters.” 

After the feast came the dancing, and nothing would 
do but Sir John and Dick must dance with all the court 
ladies. When the dancing had come to an end, be- 
cause the harpers and the dancers were every one of 
them so overcome with laughter that they could only 
sit and hold their sides, the king suddenly called for 
silence. Then he turned to Dick and asked gravely: — 

“Now that you have seen all these ladies, which 
one will you select as a wife? Look well, and choose 
so that you will not repent.” 

“Just what I was afraid of,” groaned the miller. 
“Oh, the cakes and the ale!” 

His wife said nothing, but looked anxiously at her 
son. 

“That is carrying a jest too far,” whispered the 
nobles angrily, and the court ladies began to look pale 

ns 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


and to turn their faces toward the wall lest their beauty 
should make them the choice of Squire Richard. 
They need not have been troubled, for Dick did not 
even glance at one of them, but declared stoutly: — 

“I don’t want any of your court ladies. King. I 
want a woman that can make a bag pudding. There’s 
a wench at home that’s worth them all. She’s Jugg 
Grumball, and she’s the one that I’ll marry.” 

“Thank the king kindly,” said his mother a little 
reprovingly, “ and tell him that if it was n’t for Jugg 
you’d be pleased to pick out one of the ladies.” 

“But I wouldn’t,” declared Dick bluntly; “I’d 
have Jugg or nobody.” Then the nobles laughed, but 
the ladies did not know whether to be pleased or angry. 

“Well, Sir John, I suppose I could n’t induce, you to 
exchange your wife for any one of them,” said the 
king, “but I’ll tell you what I can do. I’ll make you 
overseer of merry Sherwood Forest, and I’ll give you 
three hundred pounds a year — but see to it that you 
steal no more of my deer,” he added in a loud whisper 
that set the court off into roars of laughter, “and be 
sure that you come to court as often as once a quarter”; 
and so they mounted the mill horses again and went 
home; and every afternoon, when the dishes have been 
washed, the miller’s wife takes her mending and goes 
to visit some of her neighbors to tell them what hap- 
pened “one morning when I was at court.” 


THE FALSE KNIGHT 

♦ 

By Eva March Tappan 

G OODMAN,” said his goodwife, “our wee laddie 
wants to go to the school.” 

“And what does he want to go to the school for?” 
asked the goodman. “When I sell a sheep on a market 
day, can’t he count the silver shillings as well as I 
can?” 

“But he wants to go.” 

“It’s only great folks’ sons that go to the school,” 
objected the goodman. 

“And you’d be as fine a knight as any of them,” said 
his goodwife shrewdly, “if only you had a helmet and 
a sword and a shield.” Then the goodman had a 
thought, but all he said was : — 

“Well, goodwife, if he goes to school, he shall drive 
a flock of sheep with him, for they ’d be as good at the 
learning as he.” 

“So he shall,” thought the goodwife, “and he shall 
sell one of them by the way and buy him some books, 
and he shall have just as many as if he was a knight’s 
son.” 

So the wee laddie set out for school with a whip and 
a flock of sheep; and on the way he sold a sheep, and 
he bought a great pack of books that he carried on his 
back, all but one, and that was wide open in his left 
125 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


hand, while his whip was in his right; and as he went 
along, he drove the sheep with the whip, and he studied 
from his book, and said aloud : — 

“B-a, ba; b-a, ba.” 

He went down the lane and on the road through the 
woods, and at last he was in the king’s highway, and 
when he came to the crossroads, there was a knight on 
horseback. He had a helmet and a sword and a lance 
and a shield; and as the wee laddie came up, saying 
at the top of his voice, “B-a, ba; b-a, ba,” the knight 
held his lance across the road and said: — 

“Stop, and tell me where you are going.” 

“I’m going to the school, and I’m studying my les- 
son. B-a, ba; b-a, ba,” said the wee laddie. 

“What’s that on your back?” asked the knight. 

“It’s my books,” said the wee laddie, and he went 
on, “B-a, ba; b-e, be.” 

“And what have you on your arm? ” asked the knight. 

“It’s my whip,” said the wee laddie; but he did not 
stop his “B-a, ba; b-e, be.” 

“Whose sheep are those?” asked the knight. 

“Mine and my mother’s,” said the wee laddie. 
“B-a, ba; b-e, be; b-i, bi.” 

“How many of them are mine?” asked the knight. 

“Every one that has a blue tail,” said the wee laddie. 
“B-a, ba; b-e, be; b-i, bi; ba, be, bi.” 

Then the knight pretended to be angry that so wee 
a laddie should get the better of him, and he said: — 

“I wish you were up in yonder tree.” 

“With a good ladder under me,” retorted the wee 
laddie, and he called louder than ever: — 

126 


THE FALSE KNIGHT 

“B-a, ba; b-e, be; 

B-i, bi; and a ba, be, bi; 

B-o, bo” — 

But the knight broke in upon him and said: — 

“Then I wish that the ladder would break.” 

“And you ’d have a fall. B-o, bo, and a ba, be, bi, bo.” 

“I wish you were in the sea,” said the knight. 

“With a good strong boat under me. B-u, bu,” 
called the wee laddie. 

“Then I’ll wish that the boat would break in two,” 
cried the knight. 

“And you’d be drowned. Ba, be, bi, bo, bu,” said 
the boy. 

“You’re clean daft,” said the knight. “Get along 
to your school, and I’ll drive the sheep myself.” 

So the wee laddie let the stranger knight have the 
sheep, and he went on happily to school. When he 
came home, his mother said: — 

“Now, wee laddie, tell us what you have learned at 
school”; and the wee laddie stood up before the fire- 
place and put his hands behind his back and re- 
peated : — 

“B-a, ba; b-e, be; 

B-i, bi; and a ba, be, bi; 

B-o, bo; and a ba, be, bi, bo; 

B-u, bu; and a ba, be, bi, bo, bu.” 

“There’s many a fine gentleman’s son that could n’t 
do that,” said the goodwife proudly; but the goodman 
asked : — 

“Laddie, where are the sheep?” and the wee laddie 
.answered: — 


127 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“A stranger knight came along the way, and I let 
him have them to drive home.” 

Then the goodwife threw her apron over her head 
and sobbed : — 

“And he’s only a stupid for all he’s been to school.” 

“How did the stranger knight look?” asked the 
goodman. 

“He had an ox goad for a lance, and a pig knife for 
a sword, and an old cow skin tied over a tin pan for a 
shield, and he wore a brass kettle on his head.” 

“And you’d give the sheep to a fool like that!” ex- 
claimed the goodman. 

“But I knew it was my own father the first look I 
had at him,” said the wee laddie. 

The goodwife threw off her apron and danced for 
joy and cried: — 

“And will you tell me who’s the stupid now, good- 
man?” 


HANS THE OTHERWISE 


By John Bennett 


ERY old people may remember hearing their 



V grandfathers say that a great many years ago 
the Baron of the Land of Nod asked two questions of 
his three wise men which none of them could answer. 
If they do not remember, it will not matter at all: a 
great many things have happened that history has 
found it convenient to forget. 

But that is neither here nor there. The baron offered 
great rewards for any answer to his questions; but al- 
though all the wisest men in the world tried, no one 
succeeded; and the questions remained unanswered 
year after year, until “to answer the Baron of Nod” 
became a common saying among the people, meaning 
simply neither more nor less than to do the impossible. 

And, what was more, the whole story had grown so 
old that it had been made over into a popular song, 
so that it must have been very old indeed; and this 
was the song: — 


If you seek to find a fortune 
By your wit, do not delay: 

To the Land of Nod betake you — 

If your wit can find the way. 
There’s a rosebush by the roadside. 
And two shrubs beside the stream. 
With three little hills behind them. 
And a castle white as cream, 


129 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

Where, if you can answer questions 
At the hazard of your neck. 

You will find both fame and fortune. 

And have money by the peck! 

Now it so happened that in the little village of Narr- 
heit there lived a lad whose name nobody knew. The 
floods had left him in the rye field when he was but 
a baby, and his parents were past all finding out. 
Johann Barthel, the woodman, found him, and took 
him home to grow up with the little Barthels. Johann’s 
wife cut down her husband’s old clothes to fit the little 
fellow; and Johann himself cut down his grown-up 
name from Johann to “Hans” to give to the youngster 
who had lost his own. 

As the lad grew up, he was not at all like the small 
Barthels, whose noses all turned up like little red 
buttons, for his turned down like a hawk’s beak; and 
while they were one and all as stumpy as their noses, 
he shot up like a young tree. And, too, while the little 
Barthels chattered all day long without ever saying a 
thing worth listening to, Hans, when not at work, sat 
still in the corner, thinking; and when questioned as 
to his thoughts by the meddlesome villagers, always 
gave answers that left them even more puzzled than 
they were before. 

This was something that the good, thick-headed 
people of Narrheit could not understand; and like all 
such good, thick-headed people the world over, they 
believed that there could be nothing worth under- 
standing in what they could not understand them- 
selves. So, like all good, thick-headed folk, the dull 
130 


HANS THE OTHERWISE 

villagers, believing themselves to be most undoubtedly 
wise, called the lad, not “Hans the Wise,” but “Hans 
the Otherwise,” and thought him neither more nor less 
than a blockhead. 

Hans cared little for that, and, bearing no grudge, 
went quietly about his business, helping Johann with 
the fagots, saying little, and thinking much — which 
was more than all the rest of the villagers could have 
done together. 

At last, however, the bench beside the Barthel 
family porridge pot grew overcrowded; and one day, 
when Hans came home from the forest, there was not 
an inch left at his end. 

“Why don’t you sit down?” growled Johann, his 
heavy voice making little waves dance all around the 
rim of the big blue bowl. 

“There is no room,” faltered Hans, hanging his 
head. 

“What! No room?” cried the father, counting 
upon his thick red fingers : “ One, two, three, four — four 
on the bench, and there is no room? Elsa, Elsa!” he 
called to his wife, who was frying the sausages out in 
the kitchen, “there are only four boys sitting down; 
yet there is no room for Hans the Otherwise.” 

“Then Hans the Otherwise must find room for him- 
self somewhere else!” replied the shrill voice of the 
mother. 

There was no help for it. 

Hans turned away without a word, and went from 
house to house through the village, seeking shelter. 
The butcher gave him to eat, the baker gave him to 

131 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


drink, and the candlestick-maker gave him five farth- 
ings for good luck; but, “There is no room!” said all 
the rest, and closed the door in his face — so that he 
came to the end of the village homeless and hopeless. 
And there the idlers mocked him as he leaned against 
the post by the way. 

“Oho, Hans the Otherwise,” cried one, “go think for 
a living!” 

“Oho!” jeered another. “Go set the river on fire 
with your answers that nobody understands!” 

And “ Oho ! ” sneered another. “ Go answer the Baron 
of Nod!” 

At this the crowd shouted with laughter. But 
Hans pulled his belt tighter about his faded gabardine; 
and “Thank you for nothing,” said he curtly. “I will 
take your advice. Answering questions is not so hard 
when one knows how; and a fool may know what the 
wise men have n’t found out. Perhaps I can answer 
the baron.” 

At this the loafers laughed so hard that the tears 
rolled down their cheeks. But Hans turned his back 
on the village and all, and struck out sturdily down 
the highway. When he came to the crossroads he buried 
his five farthings under the old oak there, and set out 
in earnest on his journey. 

He wandered over land and sea, through strange 
countries and among strange people; and it was a long, 
long while before he found the Land of Nod. And when 
he did come to it at last, he did not know it at all. 
For so many years had passed that the two little shrubs 
beside the stream had sprung up into a great forest, in 
132 


HANS THE OTHERWISE 

which the trees stood so close together that the birds 
had to turn their mouths edgewise to sing; the rosebush 
had become a vast jungle of briers under which the 
road was lost to sight; and the three little hills had 
grown into huge mountains so black and so high that 
even on the brightest summer mornings the sun never 
rose above them until eleven o’clock next day. 

“Well,” said Hans, as he drew a long breath, “I 
don’t know where in the world I am, but Get-There 
never sits down!” So he fell upon his hands and knees 
to follow the road under the rosebush. 

He had crawled only a little way, however, when he 
was challenged by the guard. 

“Here, my fine fellow,” cried the captain, “where 
are you going so fast?” 

Hans rubbed his knees. “You don’t call this fast, 
do you?” said he. 

“ Well, so slow, then,” bellowed the captain. “ Where 
are you going?” 

“I wish I knew,” replied Hans. 

“Oh, pshaw! let him go,” cried one. “He is a fool.” 

“Not so,” interposed another. “Not so; for any 
fool would know where he was going. Where do you 
come from?” 

“From Narrheit,” said Hans. 

“What did I tell you? ” cried the first. “He is a fool, 
for they are all fools at Narrheit.” 

“Well, then,” exclaimed the captain, “he is cer- 
tainly a wise man for coming away ! We must take him 
to the baron, or we are all dead men!” 

So they led him over the moss-grown drawbridge 
133 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

and up dark stone stairways into the great hall, where 
the dust lay on the floor as thick as a Brussels carpet. 
Moth-eaten tapestries flapped upon the moldy walls; 
the tall wax candles had all burned down so low that 
they had turned them upside down and were burn- 
ing them the other way; while the very air itself had 
not been out in the sun for so long that it had turned 
yellow as saffron. Down in one cobwebby corner the 
Three Wise Men sat, hunting desperately through all 
the realms of science and philosophy for an answer. 
The walls were chalked full of mathematical problems 
so abstruse that it made Hans’s head ache to look at 
them; and perched high upon his mildewed throne, 
the baron frowned down with dust inch-deep upon 
his bristling brows, and his clothes so old-fashioned 
that they were just coming back into style. 

“Gr-r-r!” he growled, impatiently pulling his musty 
mustaches. “Have you found those answers yet?” 

“Oh, Your Grace,” gasped the first, as he fell on 
his knees, “I have gone through the arithmetic from 
fractions to cube root, and if — if — ” 

“And I,” stammered the second, “have worked the 
whole algebra from theorems to quadratics, but — 
but — ” 

“And I,” faltered the third, “have demonstrated 
every proposition in the geometry, and — and — ” 

The baron gritted his teeth like a gross of slate 
pencils. “I am tired of your arithmetical ‘ifs,’ your 
geometrical ‘ands,’ and your algebraical ‘buts’!” he 
roared in a fury. “If you don’t answer those questions 
in so many words by suppertime, I’ll — I’ll — ” 

134 


HANS THE OTHERWISE 


Indeed, there is no telling what he might not have 
done, but just then he spied Hans. “Hullo!” he 
cried. “What’s this? Another wise man? Gr-r-r! 
What do you know, sir?” 

“I know that I am not a wise man,” replied Hans 
calmly. 

The baron stared, surprised. “Well, I vow,” he 
exclaimed; “ that is more, to begin with, than any of 
the others knew! But can you answer questions?” 

Hans rubbed his head. “I cannot say that I cannot,” 
said he. 

“Why not?” demanded the baron, astonished. 

“Why, because,” said Hans, “if I say that I cannot 
answer a question, it will prove that I can , for then I 
shall have answered the one you have just asked me.” 

“That’s so,” mused the baron, twisting his mustache; 
“I hadn’t thought of that! Perhaps I would better 
ask the questions, and see.” 

Hans bowed, and the baron began. 

“The king has forbidden my joking,” said he, “be- 
cause my jokes are too broad. Now, sir, tell me, how 
broad may a good joke be?” 

“A good joke,” replied Hans slowly — “a very good 
joke may be just as broad as its wit is deep.” 

The baron looked puzzled. “And pray,” said he, 
“what is the depth of wit?” 

“The depth of wit,” returned Hans quickly, “is 
precisely the same as the height of the ridiculous.” 

The baron looked more puzzled than ever. “Oh, 
come,” said he, with a frown (for barons do not like 
to be trifled with), “that is all true enough, no doubt; 

135 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


but tell me now, with no more trifling, what is the 
height of the ridiculous to a hair’s breadth?” 

“Five feet nine inches,” said Hans, with a smile. 

“Oh, stuff and nonsense!” ejaculated the baron. 
“How do you make that out?” 

“Why,” replied Hans, bowing modestly, “you think 
me ridiculous for giving such an answer — and five 
feet nine inches is just my height!” 

The baron looked up at the ceiling, and then he 
looked down at the floor, perplexed. “We-e-ell,” 
said he slowly, rubbing his chin, “that may be so, too; 
but — I don’t see — what that has to do with the 
matter.” 

“Neither do I,” said Hans; “that is for you to de- 
cide. I only give answers to the questions.” 

“That ’s so,” assented the baron; “I had n’t thought 
of that.” And he scratched his head. “ You do answer 
them; and all your answers certainly seem fair, and 
plain enough, and easy to understand, so far as they 
go; yet I don’t seem to have gotten to where I want to 
get. I suppose it must be the fault of the questions.” 

“You might ask something more,” suggested Hans. 

“But I can’t think of anything more to ask,” snapped 
the baron. “We seem to have come to a sort of stop- 
ping place.” 

“I am ready to go on,” said Hans accommodatingly. 

“But I don’t know how to go on,” roared the baron. 
“ I don’t know where we are, nor how we got here, and 
I can’t see how to get to anywhere else ! ” 

“Well, you needn’t shake your fist at me!” pro- 
tested Hans. “It is not my fault.” 

136 


HANS THE OTHERWISE 


“That’s so,” apologized the baron crossly; “I 
had n’t thought of that. I suppose I may as well give 
up and take that for an answer; though I don’t know 
any more about how broad a joke may be than I did 
before.” 

“I ’m sorry,” said Hans; “I did the best I could for 
you. But let ’s go on with the second question ! ” 

“ All right,” said the baron, brightening up. “ Where 
can I find a buried treasure? ” 

For a moment Hans stood dumfounded. Then he 
suddenly remembered his five farthings. “Oh, that 
is easy enough,” said he; “just dig under the old oak 
at the crossroads.” 

Two regiments of soldiers and five huge wagons were 
sent galloping away in mad haste to the spot. In a 
short time they returned with the five farthings — one 
in each wagon. 

“ Donnerschlag und Dunkelheit! ” sputtered the baron, 
when he saw the five poor little rusty farthings. “ Throw 
the rascal into prison!” 

“Oh, come, that is n’t fair!” cried Hans indignantly. 
“Did they not find the treasure buried just where I 
said they would?” 

“Oh, yes,” stuttered the baron; “but it is such a 
small treasure!” 

“To be sure,” said Hans frankly, “it is small. But 
you did n’t ask how large it was; you asked only where 
it was buried.” 

“That ’s so,” acknowledged the baron, chagrined; 
“I had n’t thought of that. It ’s just my luck!” said 
he disgustedly. “I might just as well have asked for 
137 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


a large treasure as not, while we were at it”; and he 
chewed his mustache ruefully. “Well,” said he at 
length, grinning gloomily, “you ’ve answered my ques- 
tions, and I am neither the wiser nor the wealthier for 
being answered. But I ’m a man of my word, and you 
shall have a heaping peck of gold. But as for those 
wise men,” he stormed, seeking a vent for his rage 
somewhere, “I shall discharge them and give their 
back pay all to you, together with their places.” 

Then the three wise men were furious. It was bad 
enough to lose a good job in hard times, let alone losing 
their back pay too. 

So they conspired together against Hans, saying to 
the baron : — 

“If this fellow is wiser than we are. Sire, he can, no 
doubt, answer all questions we can ask him.” 

“To be sure,” nodded the baron. 

“And if he cannot,” said they craftily, “he is not so 
wise as we are, and you ought not to keep him in our 
places.” 

“That’s so,” mused the baron; “I hadn’t thought 
of that. Perhaps you would better ask him a question 
apiece — that would be a fair test.” 

Then the Three Wise Men took counsel together. 
“Now,” said the first, “if we succeed in sending this 
fellow away, the first thing the baron will ask, after he 
is gone, will be where to find another and a larger buried 
treasure — I know these barons!” 

“And then — pop! — off will go our heads!” groaned 
the second. 

“Oh, dear, that will never do!” cried the third. 

138 


HANS THE OTHERWISE 

“We can’t be wise men without our heads! We 
must ask him how to find a buried treasure.” 

“What good will that do?” objected the first. “If 
he does tell us, it will be answering our question, so we 
shall all lose our places.” 

“And if he doesn't tell us,” continued the second, 
“we shall keep our places — but we shan’t know how 
to find a buried treasure when he is gone.” 

“Come, come,” called the baron, growing impatient; 
“hurry up your questions!” 

It was Hobson’s choice with the wise men. 

So the first turned to Hans, and asked : — 

“ Can you find a buried treasure whenever you wish? ” 

“Yes,” said Hans. 

“How?” asked the wise man. 

“Hold on,” cried Hans, “you can’t have two ques- 
tions!” and the wise man sat down, biting his lips. 

Then the second advanced, and asked: — 

“How can you find a buried treasure whenever you 
wish?” 

“By not wishing to find one,” said Hans, “until I 
know where one is to be found.” 

“Oh, dear me!” protested the wise man. “That is 
no answer!” 

“Indeed,” said the baron, “I think it is a very sen- 
sible one. It could have saved me lots of disappoint- 
ment if I had followed that plan at first.” 

They had just one more chance left. So the three 
put their heads together to find a question from which 
there could be no possible escape. And then the third 
arose, with a look of malicious triumph, and asked : — 
139 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“How did you know that a treasure was buried un- 
der the oak at the crossroads?” 

“Why,” said Hans, laughing merrily, “I knew that 
a treasure was buried under the oak because I buried it 
there myself.” 

The baron threw himself back with a roar of laugh- 
ter, for he dearly relished a joke — when it was on 
some one else. “Good!” he shouted. “Good enough! 
If you want to find a buried treasure, go bury it your- 
self! Ho, ho, ho! Why, you have outwitted the wits 
at their own game ! ” he cried in high glee. “ I could n’t 
have done it any better myself ! ” which was a great deal 
for a baron to admit. And then said he to Hans: 
“Whatever you wish, sir, speak, and it shall be 
yours!” 

“Then please let me go back to Narrheit,” cried 
Hans quickly. “ I should rather be a fool in peace than 
a wise man in peril.” 

Then the baron gave Hans a sack of gold, and sent 
him back to Narrheit in his own coach. 

“Now, Johann Barthel,” said Hans, as he stood in 
the door, “I have came back to stay.” 

“But there is no room!” cried Johann. 

Hans threw his bag of gold on the floor. “Don’t 
say there is no room,” laughed he. “Just make the 
bench a little longer!” 

And that is a saying in Narrheit to this day. 


THE THREE REMARKS 1 

By Laura E. Richards 

T HERE was once a princess, the most beautiful 
princess that ever was seen. Her hair was black 
and soft as the raven’s wing; her eyes were like stars 
dropped in a pool of clear water, and her speech like 
the first tinkling cascade of the baby Nile. She was 
also wise, graceful, and gentle, so that one would have 
thought she must be the happiest princess in the world. 

But alas! there was one terrible drawback to her 
happiness. She could make only three remarks. No 
one knew whether it was the fault of her nurse, or a 
peculiarity born with her; but the sad fact remained, 
that no matter what was said to her, she could only 
reply in one of the phrases. The first was — “What 
is the price of butter?” 

The second, “Has your grandmother sold her mangle 
yet?” 

And the third, “With all my heart!” 

You may well imagine what a great misfortune this 
was to a young and lively princess. How could she 
join in the sports and dances of the noble youths and 
maidens of the court? She could not always be silent, 
neither could she always say, “With all my heart!” 
though this was her favorite phrase, and she used it 

1 From The Pig Brother, and Other Fables, published by Little, 
Brown & Company. Copyright, 1881, by Roberts Brothers. 

141 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

whenever she possibly could; and it was not at all 
pleasant, when some gallant knight asked her whether 
she would rather play croquet or Aunt Sally, to be 
obliged to reply, “What is the price of butter?” 

On certain occasions, however, the princess actually 
found her infirmity of service to her. She could always 
put an end suddenly to any conversation that did not 
please her, by interposing with her first or second re- 
mark; and they were also a very great assistance to her 
when, as happened nearly every day, she received an 
offer of marriage. Emperors, kings, princes, dukes, 
earls, marquises, viscounts, baronets, and many other 
lofty personages knelt at her feet, and offered her their 
hands, hearts, and other possessions of greater or less 
value. But for all her suitors the princess had but 
one answer. Fixing her deep, radiant eyes on them, 
she would reply with thrilling earnestness, “ Has your 
grandmother sold her mangle yet?” and this always 
impressed the suitors so deeply that they retired, weep- 
ing, to a neighboring monastery, where they hung up their 
armor in the chapel, and taking the vows, passed the 
remainder of their lives mostly in flogging themselves, 
wearing hair shirts, and putting dry toast crumbs in 
their beds. 

Now, when the king found that all his best nobles 
were turning into monks, he was greatly displeased, 
and said to the princess: — 

“My daughter, it is time that all this nonsense came 
to an end. The next time a respectable person asks 
you to marry him, you will say, ‘With all my heart!’ 
or I will know the reason why.” 

142 


THE THREE REMARKS 

But this the princess could not endure, for she had 
never yet seen a man whom she was willing to marry. 
Nevertheless, she feared her father’s anger, for she 
knew that he always kept his word; so that very night 
she slipped down the back stairs of the palace, opened 
the back door, and ran away out into the wide world. 

She wandered for many days, over mountain and 
moor, through fen and through forest, until she came 
to a fair city. Here all the bells were ringing, and the 
people shouting and flinging caps into the air; for their 
old king was dead, and they were just about to crown 
a new one. The new king was a stranger, who had 
come to the town only the day before; but as soon as 
he heard of the old monarch’s death, he told the people 
that he was a king himself, and as he happened to be 
without a kingdom at that moment, he would be willing 
to rule over them. The people joyfully assented, for 
the late king had left no heir; and now all the prepara- 
tions had been completed. The crown had been polished 
up, and a new tip put on the sceptre, as the old king 
had quite spoiled it by poking the fire with it for up- 
ward of forty years. 

When the people saw the beautiful princess, they 
welcomed her with many bows, and insisted on leading 
her before the new king. 

“Who knows but they may be related?” said every- 
body. “They both came from the same direction, and 
both are strangers.” 

Accordingly the princess was led to the market 
place, where the king was sitting in royal state. He 
had a fat, red, shining face, and did not look like the 
143 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

kings whom she had been in the habit of seeing; but 
nevertheless the princess made a graceful curtsy, and 
then waited to hear what he would say. 

The new king seemed rather embarrassed when he 
saw that it was a princess who appeared before him; 
but he smiled graciously, and said, in a smooth, oily 
voice: — 

“I trust your Tghness is quite well. And ’ow did 
yer Tghness leave yer pa and ma? ” 

At these words the princess raised her head and 
looked fixedly at the red-faced king; then she replied, 
with scornful distinctness: — 

“What is the price of butter?” 

At these words an alarming change came over the 
king’s face. The red faded from it, and left it a livid 
green; his teeth chattered; his eyes stared, and rolled 
in their sockets; while the sceptre dropped from his 
trembling hand and fell at the princess’s feet. For the 
truth was, this was no king at all, but a retired butter 
man, who had laid by a little money at his trade, and 
had thought of setting up a public house, but chancing 
to pass through this city at the very time when they 
were looking for a king, it struck him that he might 
just as well fill the vacant place as anyone else. No 
one had thought of his being an impostor; but when the 
princess fixed her clear eyes on him and asked him that 
familiar question, which he had been in the habit of 
hearing many times a day for a great part of his life, 
the guilty butter man thought himself detected, and 
shook in his guilty shoes. Hastily descending from his 
throne, he beckoned the princess into a side chamber, 
144 


THE THREE REMARKS 

and, closing the door, besought her in moving terms not 
to betray him. 

“Here, ” he said, “is a bag of rubies as big as pigeons’ 
eggs. There are six thousand of them, and I ’umbly 
beg your Tghness to haccept them as a slight token of 
my hesteem, if your Tghness will kindly consent to 
spare a respectable tradesman the disgrace of being 
hexposed. ” 

The princess reflected, and came to the conclusion 
that, after all, a butter man might make as good a king 
as anyone else; so she took the rubies with a gracious 
little nod, and departed, while all the people shouted, 
“Hooray!” and followed her, waving their hats and 
kerchiefs, to the gates of the city. 

With her bag of rubies over her shoulder, the fair prin- 
cess now pursued her journey, and fared forward over 
heath and hill, through brake and through brier. After 
several days she came to a deep forest, which she en- 
tered without hesitation, for she knew no fear. She 
had not gone a hundred paces under the arching limes, 
when she was met by a band of robbers, who stopped 
her and asked what she did in their forest, and what she 
carried in her bag. They were fierce, black-bearded 
men, armed to the teeth with daggers, cutlasses, pistols, 
dirks, hangers, blunderbusses, and other defensive 
weapons; but the princess gazed calmly on them, and 
said haughtily: — 

“Has your grandmother sold her mangle yet?” 

The effect was magical. The robbers started back 
in dismay, crying, “The countersign!” Then they 
hastily lowered their weapons, and assuming attitudes 
145 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

of abject humility, besought the princess graciously 
to accompany them to their master’s presence. With 
a lofty gesture she signified assent, and the cringing, 
trembling bandits led her on through the forest till 
they reached an open glade, into which the sunbeams 
glanced right merrily. Here, under a broad oak tree 
which stood in the center of the glade, reclined a man 
of gigantic stature and commanding mien, with a whole 
armory of weapons displayed upon his person. Hasten- 
ing to their chief, the robbers conveyed to him, in agi- 
tated whispers, the circumstances of their meeting the 
princess, and of her unexpected reply to their questions. 
Hardly seeming to credit their statement, the gigantic 
chieftain sprang to his feet, and advancing toward the 
princess with a respectful reverence, begged her to re- 
peat the remark which had so disturbed his men. 
With a royal air, and in clear and ringing tones, the 
princess repeated: — 

“Has your grandmother sold her mangle yet?” and 
gazed steadfastly at the robber chief. 

He turned deadly pale, and staggered against a tree, 
which alone prevented him from falling. 

“It is true!” he gasped. “We are undone! The 
enemy is without doubt close at hand, and all is over. 
Yet,” he added with more firmness, and with an appeal- 
ing glance at the princess, “yet there may be one chance 
left for us. If this gracious lady will consent to go for- 
ward, instead of returning through the wood, we may 
yet escape with our lives. Noble princess ! ” and here he 
and the whole band assumed attitudes of supplication, 
“consider, I pray you, whether it would really add to 
146 


THE THREE REMARKS 

your happiness to betray to the advancing army a few 
poor foresters, who earn their bread by the sweat of 
their brows. Here,” he continued, hastily drawing 
something from a hole in the oak tree, “is a bag con- 
taining ten thousand sapphires, each as large as a pul- 
let’s egg. If you will graciously deign to accept them, 
and to pursue your journey in the direction I shall 
indicate, the Red Chief of the Rustywhanger will be 
your slave forever.” 

The princess, who of course knew that there was no 
army in the neighborhood, and who moreover did not 
in the least care which way she went, assented to the 
Red Chief’s proposition, and taking the bag of sap- 
phires, bowed her farewell to the grateful robbers, and 
followed their leader down a ferny path which led to the 
farther end of the forest. When they came to the open 
country, the robber chieftain took his leave of the 
princess, with profound bows and many protestations 
of devotion, and returned to the band, who were 
already preparing to plunge into the impenetrable 
thickets of the midforest. 

The princess, meantime, with her two bags of gems 
on her shoulders, fared forward with a light heart, by 
dale and by down, through moss and through meadow. 
By and by she came to a fair, high palace, built all of 
marble and shining jasper, with smooth lawns about it, 
and sunny gardens of roses and gillyflowers, from which 
the air blew so sweet that it was a pleasure to breathe 
it. The princess stood still for a moment, to taste the 
sweetness of this air, and to look her fill at so fair a spot; 
and as she stood there, it chanced that the palace 
147 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

gates opened, and the young king rode out with his 
court, to go a-catching of nighthawks. 

Now when the king saw a right fair young princess 
standing alone at his palace gate, her rich garments 
dusty and travel-stained, and two heavy sacks hung 
upon her shoulders, he was filled with amazement; and 
leaping from his steed, like the gallant knight that he 
was, he besought her to tell him whence she came and 
whither she was going, and in what way he might be of 
service to her. 

But the princess looked down at her dusty shoes, and 
answered never a word; for she had seen at the first 
glance how fair and goodly a king this was, and she 
would not ask him the price of butter, nor whether his 
grandmother had sold her mangle yet. But she thought 
in her heart, “Now I have never, in all my life, seen a 
man to whom I would so willingly say, ‘With all my 
heart!’ if he should ask me to marry him.” 

The king marveled much at her silence, and presently 
repeated his questions, adding, “And what do you carry 
so carefully in those two sacks, which seem overheavy 
for your delicate shoulders?” 

Still holding her eyes downcast, the princess took a 
ruby from one bag, and a sapphire from the other, and 
in silence handed them to the king, for she willed that 
he should know she was no beggar, even though her 
shoes were dusty. Thereat all the nobles were filled 
with amazement, for no such gems had ever been seen 
in that country. 

But the king looked steadfastly at the princess, and 
said, “Rubies are fine, and sapphires are fair; but, 
148 


THE THREE REMARKS 

maiden, if I could but see those eyes of yours, I war- 
rant that the gems would look pale and dull beside 
them.” 

At that the princess raised her clear, dark eyes, and 
looked at the king and smiled; and the glance of her 
eyes pierced straight to his heart, so that he fell on 
his knees and cried : — 

“Ah! sweet princess, now do I know that thou art 
the love for whom I have waited so long, and whom I 
have sought through so many lands. Give me thy 
white hand, and tell me, either by word or by sign, 
that thou wilt be my queen and my bride!” 

And the princess, like a right royal maiden as she 
was, looked him straight in the eyes, and giving him 
her little white hand, answered bravely, “ With all my 
heartl ” 


EP AMIN OND AS AND HIS 
AUNTIE 

By Sara Cone Bryant 

E PAMINONDAS used to go to see his auntie ’most 
every day, and she nearly always gave him some- 
thing to take home to his mammy. 

One day she gave him a big piece of cake; nice, 
yellow, rich gold cake. 

Epaminondas took it in his fist, and held it all 
scrunched up tight and came along home. By the time 
he got home there was n’t anything left but a fistful of 
crumbs. His mammy said: — 

“What you got there, Epaminondas?” 

“Cake, mammy,” said Epaminondas. 

“Cake!” said his mammy. “Epaminondas, you 
ain’t got the sense you was born with ! That ’s no way 
to carry cake. The way to carry cake is to wrap it 
all up nice in some leaves and put it in your hat, and 
put your hat on your head, and come along home. You 
hear me, Epaminondas?” 

“Yes, mammy,” said Epaminondas. 

Next day Epaminondas went to see his auntie, and 
she gave him a pound of butter for his mammy; fine, 
fresh, sweet butter. 

Epaminondas wrapped it up in leaves and put it in 
his hat, and put his hat on his head, and came along 
150 


EPAMINONDAS AND HIS AUNTIE 

home. It was a very hot day. Pretty soon the butter 
began to melt. It melted, and melted, and as it melted 
it ran down Epaminondas’s forehead; then it ran over 
his face, and in his ears, and down his neck. When he 
got home, all the butter Epaminondas had was on him. 
His mammy looked at him, and then she said : — 

“Law’s sake! Epaminondas, what you got in your 
hat?” 

“Butter, mammy,” said Epaminondas; “auntie gave 
it to me.” 

“Butter!” said his mammy. “Epaminondas, you 
ain’t got the sense you was born with ! Don’t you know 
that ’s no way to carry butter? The way to carry 
butter is to wrap it up in some leaves and take it down 
to the brook, and cool it in the water, and cool it in the 
water, and cool it in the water, and then take it in 
your hands, careful, and bring it along home.” 

“Yes, mammy,” said Epaminondas. 

By and by, another day, Epaminondas went to see 
his auntie again, and this time she gave him a little 
new puppy-dog to take home. 

Epaminondas put it in some leaves and took it down 
to the brook; and there he cooled it in the water, and 
cooled it in the water, and cooled it in the water; then 
he took it in his hands and came along home. When 
he got home, the puppy-dog was dead. His mammy 
looked at it, and she said : — 

“Law’s sake! Epaminondas, what you got there?” 

“A puppy-dog, mammy,” said Epaminondas. 

“A puppy-dog!” said his mammy. “My gracious 
sakes alive, Epaminondas, you ain’t got the sense you 
151 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


was born with! That ain’t the way to carry a puppy- 
dog! The way to carry a puppy-dog is to take a long 
piece of string and tie one end of it around the puppy- 
dog’s neck and put the puppy-dog on the ground, and 
take hold of the other end of the string and come along 
home.” 

“All right, mammy,” said Epaminondas. 

Next day Epaminondas went to see his auntie again, 
and when the time came to go home she gave him a 
loaf of bread to carry to his mammy; a brown, fresh, 
crusty loaf of bread. 

So Epaminondas tied a string around the end of the 
loaf and took hold of the end of the string and came 
along home. When he got home his mammy looked 
at the thing on the end of the string, and she said : — 

“My laws a massy! Epaminondas, what you got 
on the end of that string?” 

“Bread, mammy,” said Epaminondas; “auntie gave 
it to me.” 

“Bread!!!” said his mammy. “0 Epaminondas, 
Epaminondas, you ain’t got the sense you was born with; 
you never did have the sense you was born with; you 
never will have the sense you was born with! Now I 
ain’t gwine tell you any more ways to bring truck home. 
And don’t you go see your auntie, neither. I ’ll go see 
her my own self. But I ’ll just tell you one thing, 
Epaminondas! You see these here six mince pies I 
done make? You see how I done set ’em on the door- 
step to cool? Well, now, you hear me, Epaminondas, 
you be careful how you step on those pies! ” 

“Yes, mammy,” said Epaminondas, 

m 


EPAMIN OND AS AND HIS AUNTIE 


Then Epaminondas’s mammy put on her bonnet and 
her shawl and took a basket in her hand and went away 
to see auntie. The six mince pies sat cooling in a row 
on the doorstep. 

And then — and then — Epaminondas was careful 
how he stepped on those pies! 

He stepped — right — in — the — middle — of — 
every — one. 

Nobody knows what happened next. But you can 
guess. 


THE LADY WHO PUT SALT 
IN HER COFFEE 

By Lucretia P. Hale 

T HIS was Mrs. Peterkin. It was a mistake. She 
had poured out a delicious cup of coffee, and, just 
as she was helping herself to cream, she found she had 
put in salt instead of sugar! It tasted bad. What 
should she do? Of course she could n’t drink the coffee; 
so she called in the family, for she was sitting at a late 
breakfast all alone. The family came in; they all tasted 
and looked, and wondered what should be done, and 
all sat down to think. 

At last Agamemnon, who had been to college, said, 
“Why don’t we go over and ask the advice of the 
chemist?” (For the chemist lived over the way, and 
was a very wise man.) 

Mrs. Peterkin said, “Yes,” and Mr. Peterkin said, 
“Very well,” and all the children said they would go 
too. So the little boys put on their india-rubber boots, 
and over they went. 

Now the chemist was just trying to find out some- 
thing which should turn everything it touched into 
gold; and he had a large glass bottle into which he put 
all kinds of gold and silver, and many other valuable 
things, and melted them all up over the fire, till he 
had almost found what he wanted. He could turn 
things into almost gold. But just now he had used up 
154 


i 













' * 




















l *• \ m * 


















LADY WHO PUT SALT IN HER COFFEE 

all the gold that he had around the house, and gold was 
high. He had used up his wife’s gold thimble and his 
great-grandfather’s gold-bowed spectacles; and he had 
melted up the gold head of his great-great-grandfather’s 
cane; and, just as the Peterkin family came in, he was 
down on his knees before his wife, asking her to let him 
have her wedding ring to melt up with all the rest, 
because this time he knew he should succeed, and should 
be able to turn everything into gold; and then she could 
have a new wedding ring of diamonds, all set in emer- 
alds and rubies and topazes, and all the furniture could 
be turned into the finest of gold. 

Now his wife was just consenting when the Peterkin 
family burst in. You can imagine how mad the chem- 
ist was ! He came near throwing his crucible — that 
was the name of the melting pot — at their heads. 
But he did n’t. He listened as calmly as he could to the 
story of how Mrs. Peterkin had put salt in her coffee. 

At first he said he couldn’t do anything about it; 
but when Agamemnon said they would pay in gold if 
he would only go, he packed up his bottles in a leather 
case, and went back with them all. 

First he looked at the coffee, and then stirred it. 
Then he put in a little chlorate of potassium, and the 
family tried it all around; but it tasted no better. Then 
he stirred in a little bichlorate of magnesia. But Mrs. 
Peterkin did n’t like that. Then he added some tar- 
taric acid and some hypersulphate of lime. But no; 
it was no better. “I have it!” exclaimed the chemist 
— “a little ammonia is just the thing ! ” No, it was n’t 
the thing at all. 


155 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

Then he tried, each in turn, some oxalic, cyanic, 
acetic, phosphoric, chloric, hyperchloric, sulphuric, 
boracic, silicic, nitric, formic, nitrous nitric, and car- 
bonic acids. Mrs. Peterkin tasted each, and said 
the flavor was pleasant, but not precisely that of coffee. 
So then he tried a little calcium, aluminum, barium, and 
strontium, a little clear bitumen, and a half of a third of 
a sixteenth of a grain of arsenic. This gave rather a 
pretty color; but still Mrs. Peterkin ungratefully said 
it tasted of anything but coffee. The chemist was not 
discouraged. He put in a little belladonna and atropine, 
some granulated hydrogen, some potash, and a very 
little antimony, finishing off with a little pure carbon. 
But still Mrs. Peterkin was not satisfied. 

The chemist said that all he had done ought to have 
taken out the salt. The theory remained the same, 
although the experiment had failed. Perhaps a little 
starch would have some effect. If not, that was all 
the time he could give. He should like to be paid, and 
go. They were all much obliged to him, and willing 
to give him $1.37^ in gold. Gold was now 2.69%, so 
Mr. Peterkin found in the newspaper. This gave 
Agamemnon a pretty little sum. He set himself down 
to do it. But there was the coffee ! All sat and thought 
a while, till Elizabeth Eliza said, “Why don’t we go to 
the herb-woman?” Elizabeth Eliza was the only 
daughter. She was named after her two aunts — 
Elizabeth, from the sister of her father; Eliza, from 
her mother’s sister. Now the herb-woman was an old 
woman who came around to sell herbs, and knew a great 
deal. They all shouted with joy at the idea of asking 
156 


LADY WHO PUT SALT IN HER COFFEE 

her, and Solomon John and the younger children 
agreed to go and find her too. The herb-woman lived 
down at the very end of the street; so the boys put on 
their india-rubber boots again, and they set off. It was 
a long walk through the village, but they came at last 
to the herb-woman’s house, at the foot of a high hill. 
They went through her little garden. Here she had 
marigolds and hollyhocks, and old maids and tall 
sunflowers, and all kinds of sweet-smelling herbs, so 
that the air was full of tansy tea and elderblow. Over 
the porch grew a hop vine, and a brandy cherry tree 
shaded the door, and a luxuriant cranberry vine flung 
its delicious fruit across the window. They went into 
a small parlor, which smelt very spicy. All around 
hung little bags full of catnip, and peppermint, and all 
kinds of herbs; and dried stalks hung from the ceiling; 
and on the shelves were jars of rhubarb, senna, manna, 
and the like. 

But there was no little old woman. She had gone 
up into the woods to get some more wild herbs, so they 
all thought they would follow her — Elizabeth Eliza, 
Solomon John, and the little boys. They had to climb 
up over high rocks, and in among huckleberry bushes 
and blackberry vines. But the little boys had their 
india-rubber boots. At last they discovered the little 
old woman. They knew her by her hat. It was 
steeple-crowned, without any vane. They saw her dig- 
ging with her trowel around a sassafras bush. They 
told her their story — how their mother had put salt 
in her coffee, and how the chemist had made it worse 
instead of better, and how their mother could n’t drink 
157 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


it, and would n’t she come and see what she could do? 
And she said she would, and took up her little old 
apron, with pockets all around, all filled with everlast- 
ing and pennyroyal, and went back to her house. 

There she stopped, and stuffed her huge pockets with 
some of all the kinds of herbs. She took some tansy 
and peppermint, and caraway seed and dill, spearmint 
and cloves, pennyroyal and sweet marjoram, basil and 
rosemary, wild thyme and some of the other time — such 
as you have in clocks — sappermint and oppermint, 
catnip, valerian, and hop; indeed, there is n’t a kind of 
herb you can think of that the little old woman did n’t 
have done up in her little paper bags, that had all been 
dried in her little Dutch oven. She packed these all 
up, and then went back with the children, taking her 
stick. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Peterkin was getting quite impatient 
for her coffee. 

As soon as the little old woman came she had it set 
over the fire, and began to stir in the different herbs. 
First she put in a little hop for the bitter. Mrs. Peter- 
kin said it tasted like hop tea, and not at all like coffee. 
Then she tried a little flagroot and snakeroot, then 
some spruce gum, and some caraway and some dill, 
some rue and rosemary, some sweet marjoram and sour, 
some oppermint and sappermint, a little spearmint 
and peppermint, some wild thyme, and some of the 
other tame time, some tansy and basil, and catnip and 
valerian, and sassafras, ginger, and pennyroyal. The 
children tasted after each mixture, but made up dread- 
ful faces. Mrs. Peterkin tasted, and did the same. 

158 


LADY WHO PUT SALT IN HER COFFEE 

The more the old woman stirred, and the more she put 
in, the worse it all seemed to taste. 

So the old woman shook her head, and muttered a 
few words, and said she must go. She believed the 
coffee was bewitched. She bundled up her packets 
of herbs, and took her trowel, and her basket, and her 
stick, and went back to her root of sassafras, that she 
had left half in the air and half out. And all she would 
take for pay was five cents in currency. 

Then the family were in despair, and all sat and 
thought a great while. It was growing late in the day, 
and Mrs. Peterkin had n’t had her cup of coffee. At 
last Elizabeth Eliza said, “They say that the lady 
from Philadelphia, who is staying in town, is very 
wise. Suppose I go and ask her what is best to be 
done.” To this they all agreed, it was a great thought, 
and off Elizabeth Eliza went. 

She told the lady from Philadelphia the whole story 
— how her mother had put salt in the coffee; how the 
chemist had been called in; how he tried everything 
but could make it no better; and how they went for 
the little old herb-woman, and how she had tried in 
vain, for her mother could n’t drink the coffee. The 
lady from Philadelphia listened very attentively, and 
then said, “ Why does n’t your mother make a fresh 
cup of coffee?” Elizabeth Eliza started with surprise. 
Solomon John shouted with joy; so did Agamemnon, 
who had just finished his sum; so did the little boys, who 
had followed on. “Why didn’t we think of that?” 
said Elizabeth Eliza; and they all went back to their 
mother, and she had her cup of coffee. 

159 


MR. PARTRIDGE SEES 
“HAMLET” 

By Henry Fielding 

M R. JONES agreed to carry an appointment, 
which he had before made, into execution. This 
was, to attend Mrs. Miller and her younger daughter 
into the gallery at the playhouse, and to admit Mr. 
Partridge as one of the company. For as Jones had 
really that taste for humor which many affect, he ex- 
pected to enjoy much entertainment in the criticisms 
of Partridge, from whom he expected the simple dic- 
tates of nature, unimproved, indeed, but likewise 
unadulterated, by art. 

In the first row, then, of the first gallery did Mr. 
Jones, Mrs. Miller, her youngest daughter, and Par- 
tridge take their places. Partridge immediately de- 
clared it was the finest place he had ever been in. 
When the first music was played, he said, “It was a 
wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time, 
without putting one another out.” While the fellow 
was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs. 
Miller, “Look, look, madam, the very picture of the 
man in the end of the common-prayer book before the 
gunpowder-treason service.” Nor could he help ob- 
serving, with a sigh, when all the candles were lighted, 
“That here were candles enough burned in one night, 
160 


MR. PARTRIDGE SEES “HAMLET” 


to keep an honest poor family for a whole twelve- 
month.” 

As soon as the play, which was “ Hamlet, Prince of 
Denmark,” began, Partridge was all attention, nor did 
he break silence till the entrance of the ghost; upon 
which he asked Jones, “What man that was in the 
strange dress; something,” said he, “like what I have 
seen in a picture. Sure it is not armor, is it?” Jones 
answered, “That is the ghost.” To which Partridge 
replied with a smile, “Persuade me to that, sir, if you 
can. Though I can’t say I ever actually saw a ghost 
in my life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw 
him, better than that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts 
don’t appear in such dresses as that, neither.” In 
this mistake, which caused much laughter in the neigh- 
borhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till 
the scene between the ghost and Hamlet, when Par- 
tridge gave that credit to Mr. Garrick which he had 
denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a trembling, 
that his knees knocked against each other. Jones 
asked him what was the matter, and whether he was 
afraid of the warrior upon the stage. “O la, sir,” 
said he, “I perceive now it is what you told me. I am 
not afraid of anything; for I know it is but a play. 
And if it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm at 
such a distance, and in so much company; and yet if 
I was frightened, I am not the only person.” “Why, 
who,” cries Jones, “dost thou take to be such a coward 
here besides thyself?” “Nay, you may call me a 
coward if you will; but if that little man there upon the 
stage is not frightened, I never saw any man frightened 
161 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

in my life. Aye, aye: go along with you; aye, to be 
sure! Who ’s fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy 
upon such foolhardiness! — Whatever happens, it is 
good enough for you. — Follow you? I ’d follow the 
devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is the devil — for they 
say he can put on what likeness he pleases. — Oh ! 
here he is again. — No farther! No, you have gone 
far enough already; farther than I ’d have gone for all 
the king’s dominions.” Jones offered to speak, but 
Partridge cried, “ Hush, hush ! dear sir, don’t you hear 
him?” And during the whole speech of the ghost, he 
sat with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly 
on Hamlet, and with his mouth open; the same passions 
which succeeded each other in Hamlet succeeding 
likewise in him. 

When the scene was over Jones said, “Why, Par- 
tridge, you exceed my expectations. You enjoy the 
play more than I conceived possible.” “Nay, sir,” 
answered Partridge, “if you are not afraid of the devil, 
I can’t help you; but, to be sure, it is natural to be 
surprised at such things, though I know there is nothing 
in them: not that it was the ghost that surprised me, 
neither; for I should have known that to have been 
only a man in a strange dress; but when I saw the little 
man so frightened himself, it was that which took 
hold of me.” “And dost thou imagine, then, Par- 
tridge,” cries Jones, “that he was really frightened?” 
“Nay, sir,” said Partridge, “did not you yourself 
observe afterwards, when he found it was his own 
father’s spirit, and how he was murdered in the garden, 
how his fear forsook him by degrees, and he was struck 
162 


MR. PARTRIDGE SEES “HAMLET” 


dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as I should have 
been, had it been my own case? — But hush! O la! 
what noise is that? There he is again. — Well, to be 
certain, though I know there is nothing at all in it, I 
am glad I am not down yonder, where those men are.” 
Then turning his eyes again upon Hamlet, “Aye, you 
may draw your sword; what signifies a sword against 
the power of the devil?” 

During the second act, Partridge made very few re- 
marks. He greatly admired the fineness of the dresses; 
nor could he help observing upon the king’s coun- 
tenance. “Well,” said he, “how people may be deceived 
by faces! Nulla fides fronti is, I find, a true saying. 
Who would think, by looking in the king’s face, that he 
had ever committed a murder?” He then inquired 
after the ghost; but Jones, who intended he should be 
surprised, gave him no other satisfaction than “that 
he might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash 
of fire.” 

Partridge sat in a fearful expectation of this; and 
now, when the ghost made his next appearance, Par- 
tridge cried out, “There, sir, now; what say you now? 
is he frightened now or no? As much frightened as 
you think me, and, to be sure, nobody can help some 
fears. I would not be in so bad a condition as what ’s 
his name, squire Hamlet, is there, for all the world. 
Bless me! what ’s become of the spirit? As I am a liv- 
ing soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth.” 
“Indeed, you saw right,” answered Jones. “Well, 
well,” cries Partridge, “I know it is only a play; and 
besides, if there was anything in all this, Madam Miller 
163 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


would not laugh so; for, as to you, sir, you would not 
be afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in person. — 
There, there — aye, no wonder you are in such a 
passion; shake the vile, wicked wretch to pieces. If 
she was my own mother, I would serve her so. To be 
sure, all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked 
doings, — aye, go about your business, I hate the 
sight of you.” 

Our critic was now pretty silent till the play which 
Hamlet introduces before the king. This he did not 
at first understand, till Jones explained it to him; but 
he no sooner entered into the spirit of it than he began 
to bless himself that he had never committed murder. 
Then turning to Mrs. Miller, he asked her, “If she did 
not imagine the king looked as if he was touched; 
though he is,” said he, “a good actor, and doth all he 
can to hide it. Well, I would not have so much to 
answer for as that wicked man there hath, to sit upon 
a much higher chair than he sits upon. No wonder he 
ran away; for your sake I ’ll never trust an innocent 
face again.” 

The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention 
of Partridge, who expressed much surprise at the num- 
ber of skulls thrown upon the stage. To which Jones 
answered, “That it was one of the most famous burial- 
places about town.” “No wonder, then,” cries Par- 
tridge, “that the place is haunted. But I never saw 
in my life a worse gravedigger. I had a sexton, when 
I was clerk, that should have dug three graves while 
he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as if it 
was the first time he had ever had one in his hand. 
164 


MR. PARTRIDGE SEES “HAMLET” 


Aye, aye, you may sing. You had rather sing than 
work, I believe.” Upon Hamlet’s taking up the skull, 
he cried out, “Well! it is strange to see how fearless 
some men are: I never could bring myself to touch 
anything belonging to a dead man, on any account. — 
He seemed frightened enough too at the ghost, I 
thought. Nemo omnibus horis sapit .” 

Little more worth remembering occurred during the 
play, at the end of which Jones asked him, “Which 
of the players he had liked best? ” To this he answered 
with some appearance of indignation at the question, 
“The king without doubt.” “Indeed, Mr. Partridge,” 
says Mrs. Miller. “You are not of the same opinion 
with the town; for they are all agreed that Hamlet is 
acted by the best player who ever was on the stage.” 
“He the best player!” cries Partridge, with a con- 
temptuous sneer; “why I could act as well as he 
myself. I am sure, if I had seen a ghost, I should 
have looked in the very same manner, and done just 
as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you 
called it, between him and his mother, where you told 
me he acted so fine, why, any man, that is, any good 
man, that had such a mother, would have done exactly 
the same. I know you are only joking with me; but 
indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in 
London, yet I have seen acting before in the country: 
and the king for my money; he speaks all his words 
distinctly, half as loud again as the other — anybody 
may see he is an actor.” 

Thus ended the adventure at the playhouse, where 
Partridge had afforded great mirth, not only to Jones 
165 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


and Mrs. Miller, but to all who sat within hearing, who 
were more attentive to what he said than to anything 
that passed on the stage. 

He durst not go to bed all that night, for fear of the 
ghost; and for many nights after sweated two or three 
hours before he went to sleep, with the same apprehen- 
sions, and waked several times in great horrors, crying 
out, “Lord have mercy upon us! there it is.” 


HOW KITTIE HELPED GEORGE 

( Slightly abridged) 

By Elizabeth Jordan 

O NE night Mrs. James gave a large party for Jo- 
sephine, and of course Mabel and Kittie, being 
thirteen and fourteen, had to go to bed. It is such 
things as this that embitter the lives of schoolgirls. But 
they were allowed to go down and see all the lights and 
flowers and decorations before the people began to come, 
and they went into the conservatory because that was 
fixed with little nooks and things. They got away in 
and off in a kind of wing of it, and they talked and pre- 
tended they were debutantes at the ball, so they stayed 
longer than they knew. Then they heard voices, and 
they looked and saw Josephine and Mr. Morgan sitting 
by the fountain. Before they could move or say they 
were there, they heard him say this — Kittie remem- 
bered just what it was: — 

“I have spent six years following you, and you’ve 
treated me as if I were a dog at the end of a string. 
This thing must end. I must have you, or I must 
learn to live without you, and I must know now which 
it is to be. Josephine, you must give me my final 
answer to-night.” 

Wasn’t it embarrassing for Kittie and Mabel? 
They did not want to listen, but some instinct told 
167 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


them Josephine and George might not be glad to see 
them then, so they crept behind a lot of tall palms and 
Mabel put her fingers in her ears so she would n’t hear. 
Kittie did n’t. She explained to me afterwards that 
she thought it being her sister made things kind of 
different. It was all in the family, anyhow. So 
Kittie heard Josephine tell Mr. Morgan that the reason 
she did not marry him was because he was an idler and 
without an ambition or a purpose in life. And she 
said she must respect the man she married as well as 
love him. Then George jumped up quickly and asked 
if she loved him, and she cried and said she did, but 
that she would never, never marry him until he did 
something to win her admiration and prove he was a 
man. You can imagine how exciting it was for Kittie 
to see with her own innocent eyes how grown-up people 
manage such things. She said she was so afraid she ’d 
miss something that she opened them so wide they hurt 
her afterwards. But she did n’t miss anything. She 
saw him kiss Josephine, too, and then Josephine got 
up, and he argued and tried to make her change her 
mind, and she would n’t, and finally they left the con- 
servatory. After that, Kittie and Mabel crept out 
and rushed upstairs; it was time, for people were begin- 
ning to come. 

The next morning Kittie turned to Mabel with a 
look on her face which Mabel had never seen there 
before. It was grim and determined. She said she 
had a plan and wanted Mabel to help her, and not ask 
any questions, but get her skates and come out. 
Mabel did, and they went straight to George Morgan’s 
168 


HOW KITTIE HELPED GEORGE 

house, which was only a few blocks away. He was 
very rich and had a beautiful house. An English 
butler came to the door. Mabel said she was so fright- 
ened her teeth chattered, but he smiled when he saw 
Kittie, and said, yes, Mr. Morgan was at home, and 
at breakfast, and invited them in. When George 
came in, he had a smoking jacket on, and looked very 
pale and sad and romantic, Mabel thought, but he 
smiled, too, when he saw them, and shook hands and 
asked them if they had breakfasted. 

Kittie said yes, but they had come to ask him to 
take them skating, and they were all ready and had 
brought their skates. His face fell, as real writers say, 
and he hesitated a little, but at last he said he ’d go, 
and he excused himself, just as if they had been grown 
up, and went off to get ready. 

When they were left alone a terrible doubt assailed 
Mabel, and she asked Kittie if she was going to ask 
George again to marry her. Kittie blushed and said 
she was not, of course, and that she knew better 
now. 

Kittie said she had a plan to help George, and all 
Mabel had to do was to watch and keep on breathing. 
Mabel felt better then, and said she guessed she could 
do that. George came back all ready, and they started 
off. Kittie acted rather dark and mysterious, but 
Mabel conversed with George in the easy and pleasant 
fashion young men love. She told him all about school 
and how bad she was in algebra; and he said he had 
been a duffer at it, too, but that he had learned to shun 
it while there was yet time. And he advised her very 
169 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


earnestly to have nothing to do with it. Mabel did n’t 
either, after she came back to St. Catharine’s; and when 
Sister Irmingarde reproached her, Mabel said she was 
leaning on the judgment of a strong man, as women 
should do. But Sister Irmingarde made her go on 
with the algebra just the same. 

By and by they came to the river, and it was so 
early that not many people were skating there. When 
George had fastened on their skates — he did it in the 
nicest way, exactly as if they were grown up — Kittie 
looked more mysterious than ever, and she started off 
as fast as she could skate toward a little inlet where 
there was no one at all. George and Mabel followed 
her. George said he did n’t know whether the ice was 
smooth in there, but Kittie kept right on, and George 
did not say any more. I guess he did not care much 
where he went. I suppose it disappoints a man when 
he wants to marry a woman and she won’t. 

Kittie kept far ahead, and all of a sudden Mabel 
saw that a little distance farther on there was a big, 
black hole in the ice, and Kittie was skating straight 
toward it. Mabel tried to scream, but she says the 
sound froze on her pallid lips. Then George saw the 
hole, too, and rushed toward Kittie, and quicker than 
I can write it Kittie went in that hole and down. 

Mabel says George was there almost as soon, calling 
to Mabel to keep back out of danger. Usually when 
people have to rescue others, especially in stories, they 
call to someone to bring a board, and someone does, 
and it is easy. But very often in real life there is n’t 
any board or anyone to bring it, and this was, indeed, 
170 


HOW KITTIE HELPED GEORGE 


the desperate situation that confronted my hero. 
There was nothing to do but plunge in after Kittie, and 
he plunged, skates and all. Then Mabel heard him 
gasp and laugh a little, and he called out: “It’s all 
right! The water is n’t much above my knees.” And 
even as he spoke Mabel saw Kittie rise in the water and 
sort of hurl herself at him and pull him down into the 
water, head and all. When they came up they were both 
half strangled, and Mabel was terribly frightened; for 
she thought George was mistaken about the depth, 
and they would both drown before her eyes; and then 
she would see that picture all her life, as they do in 
stories, and her hair would turn gray. She began to run 
up and down on the ice and scream; but even as she 
did so she heard these extraordinary words come from 
between Kittie James’s chattering teeth: — 

“ Now you are good and wet /” 

George did not say a word. He confessed to Mabel 
afterwards that he thought poor Kittie had lost her 
mind through fear. But he tried the ice till he found 
a place that would hold him, and he got out and pulled 
Kittie out. As soon as Kittie was out she opened her 
mouth and uttered more remarkable words. 

“Now,” she said, “I ’ll skate till we get near the 
club house. Then you must pick me up and carry me, 
and I ’ll shut my eyes and let my head hang down. 
And Mabel must cry — good and hard. Then you must 
send for Josephine and let her see how you ’ve saved 
the life of her precious little sister.” 

Mabel said she was sure that Kittie was crazy, and 
next she thought George was crazy, too. For he bent 
171 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


and stared hard into Kittie’s eyes for a minute, and 
then he began to laugh, and he laughed till he cried. 
He tried to speak, but he could n’t at first; and when 
he did the words came out between his shouts of glee. 

“Do you mean to say, you young monkey,” he said, 
“that this is a put-up job? ” 

Kittie nodded as solemnly as a fair young girl can 
nod when her clothes are dripping and her nose is blue 
with cold. When she did that, George roared again; 
then, as if he had remembered something, he caught her 
hands and began to skate very fast toward the club 
house. He was a thoughtful young man, you see, and 
he wanted her to get warm. Anyhow, they started 
off, and as they went, Kittie opened still farther the 
closed flower of her girlish heart. I heard that expres- 
sion once, and I ’ve always wanted to get it into my 
book. I think this is a good place. 

She told George she knew the hole in the ice, and that 
it was n’t deep ; and she said she had done it all to make 
Josephine admire him and marry him. 

“She will, too,” she said. “Her dear little sister — 
the only one she ’s got.” And Kittie went on to say 
what a terrible thing it would have been if she had died 
in the promise of her young life, till Mabel said she 
almost felt sure herself that George had saved her. 
But George hesitated. He said it wasn’t “a square 
deal,” whatever that means, but Kittie said no one 
need tell any lies. She had gone into the hole, and 
George had pulled her out. She thought they need n’t 
explain how deep it was, and George admitted, thought- 
fully, that “no truly loving family should hunger for 
172 


HOW KITTIE HELPED GEORGE 


figures at such a moment.” Finally he said, “I ’ll do it. 
All ’s fair in love and war.” Then he asked Mabel if she 
thought she could “lend intelligent support to the star 
performers,” and she said she could. So George picked 
Kittie up in his arms, and Mabel cried — she was so 
excited it was easy, and she wanted to do it all the 
time — and the sad little procession “homeward 
wended its weary way,” as the poet says. 

Mabel told me Kittie did her part like a real actress. 
She shut her eyes and her head hung over George’s 
arm, and her long, wet braid dripped as it trailed 
behind them. George laughed to himself every few 
minutes till they got near the club house. Then he 
looked very sober, and Mabel Blossom knew her cue 
had come the way it does to actresses, and she let out 
a wail that almost made Kittie sit up. It was ’most 
too much of a one, and Mr. Morgan advised her to 
“tone it down a little,” because, he said, if she did n’t 
they ’d probably have Kittie buried before she could 
explain. But of course Mabel had not been prepared, 
and had not had any practice. She muffled her sobs 
after that, and they sounded lots better. People began 
to rush from the club house, and get blankets and 
whisky, and telephone for doctors and for Kittie’s 
family, and things got so exciting that nobody paid any 
attention to Mabel. All she had to do was to mop her 
eyes occasionally and keep a sharp lookout for Jo- 
sephine; for, of course, she did not want to miss what 
came next. 

Pretty soon a horse galloped up, foaming at the 
mouth, and he was pulled back on his haunches, and 
173 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Josephine and Mr. Janies jumped out of the buggy 
and rushed in, and there was more excitement. When 
George saw them coming he turned pale, Mabel said, 
and hurried off to change his clothes. One woman 
looked after him and said, “As modest as he is brave,” 
and cried over it. When Josephine and Mr. James came 
in there was more excitement, and Kittie opened one 
eye and shut it again, right off, and the doctor said she 
was all right, except for the shock, and her father and 
Josephine cried, so Mabel did n’t have to any more. 
She was glad, too, I can tell you. 

They put Kittie to bed in a room at the club, for the 
doctor said she was such a high-strung child it would 
be wise to keep her perfectly quiet for a few hours 
and take precautions against pneumonia. Then Jo- 
sephine went around asking for Mr. Morgan. 

By and by he came down in dry clothes, but look- 
ing dreadfully uncomfortable. Mabel said she could 
imagine how he felt. Josephine was standing by the 
open fire when he entered the room, and no one else 
was there but Mabel. Josephine went right to him and 
put her arms around his neck. 

“Dearest, dearest ! ” she said. “How can I ever thank 
you?” Her voice was very low, but Mabel heard it. 
George said right off, “There is a way.” That shows 
how quick and clever he is, for some men might not 
think of it. Then Mabel Blossom left the room with 
slow, reluctant feet, and went upstairs to Kittie. 

That ’s why Mabel has just gone to Kittie’s home for 
a few days. She and Kittie are to be flower maids at 
Josephine’s wedding. I hope it is not necessary for me 
174 


HOW KITTIE HELPED GEORGE 

to explain to my intelligent readers that her husband 
will be George Morgan. Kittie says he confessed the 
whole thing to Josephine, and she forgave him, and 
said she would marry him anyhow, but she explained 
that she only did it on Kittie’s account. She said she 
did not know to what lengths the child might go next. 


THE ANTI-BURGLARS 

By E . V. Lucas 

i 

T HE letter was addressed to Miss Mary Stavely. 
It ran : — 

My Dear Mary, — 

I have just received five pounds that I had given up for 
lost, and, remembering what you told me at Easter of the 
importance of distributing a little money in the village, I 
think you had better have it and become my almoner. An 
almoner is one who gives away money for another. I shall 
be interested in hearing how you get on. 

Your affectionate 

Uncle Herbert. 

Inside the letter was a five-pound note. 

Mary read the letter for the twentieth time, and for 
the twentieth time unfolded the crackling five-pound 
note — more money than she had ever seen before. 
She was thirteen. 

“But what shall I do with it?” she asked. “So 
many people want things.” 

“ Oh, you must n’t ask me,” said her mother. “ Uncle 
Herbert wants you to decide entirely for yourself. 
You must make a list of everyone in the village who 
wants help, and then look into each case very carefully.” 

“Yes,” said Harry, Mary’s brother, as he finished 
breakfast, “and don’t forget me. My bicycle ought 
176 


THE ANTI-BURGLARS 

to be put right, for one thing, and, for another, I 
haven’t any more films for my camera. If that is n’t a 
deserving case, I ’d like to know what is.” 


ii 


In a few days’ time the list was ready. It ran like 
this : — 

Mrs. Meadows’ false teeth want mending. It can be done £ s. d. 

for 0 12 6 

Tommy Pringle ought to go to a Nursing Home by the 
sea for three weeks. This costs 7s. a week and 5$. 4 d. re- 
turn fare 1 64 

Old Mrs. Wigram really must have a new bonnet .... 0 46 

Mrs. Ryan has been saving up for months to buy a sewing 
machine. She had it all ready, but Sarah’s illness has 
taken away 10s. I should like to make that up . . . . 0 10 0 
The little Barretts ought to have a real ball. It is n’t any 

fun playing with a bit of wood 0 10 

Mr. Eyles has broken his spectacles again 0 2 6 

Old Mr. and Mrs. Snelling have never been in London, and 
they ’re both nearly eighty. I ’m sure they ought to go. 

There is an excursion on the first of the month at 3s. re- 
turn each, and their grandson’s wife would look after 
them there. Fraser’s cart to the station and back would 

be 4s 0 10 0 

Mrs. Callow will lose all her peas and currants again if she 

does n’t have a net 0 30 

The schoolmaster says that the one thing that would get 
the boys to the village room is a gramaphone like the one 
at the public house. This is 15s., and twelve tunes for 9s. 1 4 0 

Mrs. Carter’s mangle will cost 8s. to be mended, but it must 

be done 080 

Thomas Barnes’ truck is no good any more, and his illness 
took away all the money he had; but he will never take it 
if he knows it comes from us 1 10 0 

Mary read through her list and once more added up 
the figures. They came to £6 11s. lOd. 

“Dear me! ” she said, “I hadn’t any idea it was so 
difficult to be an almoner.” 

177 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

She went through the list again, and brought it down 
to £5 0^. 10 d. by knocking off one week of Tommy 
Pringle’s seaside holiday and depriving the village 
room of its gramaphone. 

“I suppose I must make up the tenpence myself,” 
she said. 

hi 

That afternoon Mary went to call on Mr. Vemey. 
Mr. Verney was an artist who lived at the forge cottage. 
He and Mary were great friends. She used to sit by 
him while he painted, and he played cricket with her 
and Harry and was very useful with a pocket knife. 

“No one,” she said to herself, “can help me so well 
as Mr. Verney, and if I decide myself on how the money 
is to be spent, it will be all right to get some help in 
spending it.” 

Mr. Verney liked the scheme immensely. “But I 
don’t see that you want any help,” he said. “You 
have done it so far as well as possible.” 

“Well,” said Mary, “there’s one great difficulty: 
Thomas Barnes would never take anything from our 
house. You see, we once had his son for a gardener, 
and father had to send him away because of something 
he did; but though it was altogether his son’s fault, 
Thomas Barnes has never spoken to father since, or 
even looked at him. But he ’s very old and poorly, 
and very lonely, and it ’s most important he should have 
a new hand truck, because all his living depends on it; 
but it ’s frightfully important that he should n’t know 
who gave it to him.” 


178 


THE ANTI-BURGLARS 

“Would n’t he guess?” Mr. Verney said. 

“Not if nobody knew.” 

“Oh, I see: no one is to know. That makes it much 
more fun.” 

“But how are we to do it?” Mary asked. “That’s 
why I want you to help. Of course, we can post most 
of the money, but we can’t post a truck. If Thomas 
Barnes knew, he ’d send it back directly.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Verney, after thinking for some 
time, “there ’s only one way: we shall have to be anti- 
burglars.” 

“ Anti-burglars ! ” cried Mary. “ What ’s that? ” 

“Well, a burglar is someone who breaks into a house 
and takes things away; an anti-burglar is someone 
who breaks into a house and leaves things there. Just 
the opposite, you see.” 

“But suppose we are caught?” 

“That would be funny. I don’t know what the 
punishment for anti-burgling is. I think perhaps the 
owner of the house ought to be punished for being so 
foolish as to interrupt. But tell me more about Thomas 
Barnes.” 

“Thomas Barnes,” said Mary, “lives in a cottage 
by the crossroads all alone.” 

“What does he do?” 

“He fetches things from the station for people; he 
carries the washing home from Mrs. Carter’s; he runs 
errands — at least, he does n’t run them: people wish 
he would; he sometimes does a day’s work in a garden. 
But he really must have a new barrow, and his illness 
took all his money away, because he would n’t belong 
179 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


to a club. He ’s quite the most obstinate man in this 
part of the country. But he ’s so lonely, you know.” 

“Then,” said Mr. Verney, “we must wait till he 
goes away on an errand.” 

“But he locks his shed.” 

“Then we must break in.” 

“But if people saw us taking the barrow there?” 

“Then we must go in the night. I ’ll send him to 
Westerfield suddenly for something quite late — some 
medicine, and then he ’ll think I ’m ill — on a Thursday, 
when there *s the midnight train, and we ’ll pop down 
to his place at about eleven with a screwdriver and 
things.” 

After arranging to go to Westerfield as soon as 
possible to spend their money, Mary ran home. 

Being an almoner was becoming much more inter- 
esting. 

IV 

Mr. Verney and Mary went to Westerfield the next 
day, leaving a very sulky Harry behind. 

“I can’t think why Uncle Herbert didn’t send that 
money to me,” he grumbled. “Why should a girl 
like Mary have all this almoning fun? I could almon 
as well as she.” 

As a matter of fact, Uncle Herbert had made a very 
wise choice. Harry had none of Mary’s interest in the 
village, nor had he any of her patience. But in his 
own way he was a very clever boy. He bowled straight, 
and knew a linnet’s egg from a greenfinch’s. 

Mr. Verney and Mary’s first visit was to the bank, 
where Mary handed her five-pound note through the 
180 


THE ANTI-BURGLARS 


bars, and the clerk scooped up four sovereigns and 
two half-sovereigns in his little copper shovel and 
poured them into her hand. 

Then they bought a penny account book and went 
on to Mr. Flower, the ironmonger, to see about Thomas 
Barnes , truck. Mr. Flower had a second-hand one for 
twenty-five shillings, and he promised to touch it up 
for two shillings more; and he promised also that 
neither he nor his man should ever say anything about 
it. It was arranged that the barrow should be wrapped 
up in sacking and taken to Mr. Verney’s, inside the 
wagon, and be delivered after dark. 

“Why do you want it?” Mary asked him. 

“That ’s a secret,” he said; “you ’ll know later.” 

Mr. Flower also undertook to send three shillings’ 
worth of netting to Mrs. Callow, asking her to do him 
the favor of trying it to see if it were a good strong kind. 

Mary and Mr. Verney then walked on to Mr. Costall, 
the dentist, who was in Westerfield only on Thursdays 
between ten and four. It was the first time that Mary 
had ever stood on his doorstep without feeling her 
heart sink. Mr. Costall, although a dentist, was a 
smiling, happy man, and he entered into the scheme 
directly. He said he would write to Mrs. Meadows 
and ask her to call, saying that someone whom he 
would not mention had arranged the matter with him. 
And when Mary asked him how much she should pay 
him, he said that ten shillings would do. This meant 
a saving of half a crown. 

“How nice it would be always to visit Mr. Costall,” 
Mary said, with a sigh, “if he did not pull our teeth.” 

181 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Mary and Mr. Verney then chose Mrs. Wigram’s 
new bonnet, which they' posted to her at once. Mr. 
Verney liked one with red roses, but Mary told him 
that nothing would ever induce Mrs. Wigram to wear 
anything but black. The girl in the shop recom- 
mended another kind, trimmed with a very blue bird; 
but Mary had her own way. 

Afterwards they bought a ball for the Barretts; and 
then they bought a postal order for eight shillings for 
Mrs. Carter, and half a crown for Mr. Eyles, and ten 
shillings for Mrs. Ryan, and fourteen shillings for Mrs. 
Pringle. It was most melancholy to see the beautiful 
sovereigns dropping into other people’s tills. Mary 
put all these amounts down in her penny account book. 
She also put down the cost of her return ticket. 

When they got back to the village they saw Mr. 
Ward, the stationmaster. After telling him how im- 
portant it was to keep the secret, Mary bought a return 
ticket to the sea for Tommy Pringle, without any date 
on it, and two excursion tickets for old Mr. and Mrs. 
Snelling for the first of next month. Mr. Ward did not 
have many secrets in his life, and he was delighted to 
keep these. 

While they were talking to him a curious and excit- 
ing thing happened. A message began to tick off on 
the telegraph machine. Mr. Verney was just turning 
to go away when Mr. Ward called out, “Stop a minute, 
please! This message is for Miss Stavely.” 

Mary ran over to the machine and stood by Mr. 
Ward while he wrote down the message which the little 
needle ticked out. She had never had a telegram be- 
182 


THE ANTI-BURGLARS 

fore, and to have one like this — “warm from the 
cow,” as Mr. Ward said — was splendid. Mr. Ward 
handed it to her at last. 

Mary Stavely, Mercombe. 

How is the almoning? I want to pay all extra expenses. 

Uncle Herbert. 

The reply was paid; but Mary had to write it out 
several times before it satisfied her and came within 
the sixpence. This was what she said : — 

Staveley, Reform Club , London. 

All right. Will send accounts. Expenses small. 

Mary. 

On the way home they spoke to Fraser, who let out 
carriages and carts. Fraser liked the plan as much as 
everyone else did. He promised to call in on the 
Snellings in a casual way, on the morning on which 
they would receive their tickets, and suggest to them 
that they should let him drive them to the station and 
bring them home again. When Mary offered to pay 
him, Mr. Fraser said no, certainly not; he would like 
to help her. He had n ’t done anything for anybody 
for so long that he should be interested in seeing what 
it felt like. This meant a saving of four shillings. 

Mary went to tea at Mr. Verney’s. After tea he 
printed addresses on a number of envelopes, and put 
the postal orders inside, with a little card in each, on 
which he printed the words, “From a friend, for 
Tommy to go to the seaside home for a fortnight”; 
“From a friend, for Mr. and Mrs. Snelling to go to 
London”; “From a friend, for Mr. Eyles’ spectacles”; 

183 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

and so forth; and then he stamped them and stuck 
them down, and put them all into a big envelope, which 
he posted to his sister in Ireland, so that when they 
came back they all had the Dublin postmark, and no 
one ever saw such puzzled and happy people as the 
recipients were. 

“Has your mother any friends in Dublin, Miss 
Mary?” Mrs. Snelling asked a day or so later, in the 
midst of a conversation about sweet peas. 

“No,” said Mary. It was not until afterwards that 
she saw what Mrs. Snelling meant. 

v 

Next Thursday came at last, the day on which 
Thomas Barnes’ shed was to be anti-burgled. At ten 
o’clock, having had leave to stay up late on this great 
occasion, Mary put on her things, and Mr. Verney, 
who had come to dinner, took her to his rooms. There, 
in the outhouse which he used for a studio, he showed 
her the truck. 

“And here,” he said, “is my secret,” pointing out 
the words: — 

THOMAS BARNES 

Porter, Mercombe 

which he had painted in white letters on the side. 

“He ’s bound to keep it now, whatever happens,” 
Mr. Verney said. “In order to make as little noise 
as possible to-night,” he added, “I have wrapped felt 
around the tires.” 

He then took a bag from the shelf, placed it on the 
barrow, and they stole out. Mr. Verney’s landlady 
184 


THE ANTI-BURGLARS 

had gone to bed, and there was no sound of anyone 
in the village. The truck made no noise. 

After half a mile they came to the crossroads where 
Thomas Barnes’ cottage stood, and Mr. Verney walked 
to the house and knocked loudly. 

There was no answer. Indeed, he had not expected 
one, but he wished to make sure that Thomas had not 
returned from Westerfield sooner than he should. 

“It *s all right,” he whispered. “Now for the anti- 
burgling.” 

He wheeled the truck to the side of the gate leading 
to the shed, and, taking the bag, they passed through. 
Mr. Verney opened the bag and took out a lantern, a 
hammer, and a screwdriver. 

“We must get this padlock off,” he said, and while 
Mary held the lantern he worked away at the fasten- 
ings. It was more difficult than he expected, espe- 
cially as he did not want to break anything, but to put 
it back exactly as it had been. Several minutes passed. 

“There,” he cried, “that ’s it.” 

At the same moment a sound of heavy footsteps 
was heard, and Mary gave a little scream and dropped 
the lantern. 

A strong hand gripped her arm. 

“Hullo! Hullo!” said a gruff voice. “What ’s this? 
Housebreaking, indeed ! ” 

Mr. Verney had stooped for the lantern, and as 
he rose, the policeman — for he it was — seized him 
also. 

“You ’d better come along with me,” the policeman 
said, “and make no trouble about it. The less trouble 
185 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 
you make, the easier it ’ll be for you before the magis- 
trates.” 

“But look here,” Mr. Verney said, “you ’re making 
a mistake. We ’re not housebreaking.” 

The policeman laughed. “Now, that’s a good ’un,” 
he said. “Dark lantern, screwdriver, hammer, eleven 
o’clock at night, Thomas Barnes’ shed — and you ’re 
not housebreaking. Perhaps you’ll tell me what you 
are doing, you and your audacious female accomplice 
here. Playing hide-and-seek, I suppose?” 

“Well,” said Mr. Verney, suddenly striking a match 
with his free hand and holding it up so that the light 
fell full on his own and on Mary’s face, “we’ll tell you 
the whole story.” 

“Miss Stavely!” cried the policeman, “and Mr. 
Verney. Well, this is a start. But what does it all 
mean?” 

Then Mr. Verney told the story, first making Dobbs 
promise not to tell it again. 

The policeman grew more and more interested as it 
went on. Finally he exclaimed: “You get the door 
open, sir, and I ’ll fetch the truck through. Time ’s 
getting along.” 

He hurried out of the yard and returned carrying 
the truck on his shoulders. Then he stripped off the 
felt with his knife and ran it into the shed, beside the 
old broken-down barrow that had done service for so 
many years. 

Mr. Verney soon had the padlock back in its place 
as if nothing had happened, and after carefully gather- 
ing up the felt they hurried off, in order to get home 
186 


THE ANTI-BURGLARS 

before Thomas Barnes should call with the medicine 
that he had been sent to buy. 

“Let me carry the bag, sir,” the policeman said. 

“What, full of burgling tools!” said Mr. Verney. 

“Mum ’s the word,” the policeman replied, “mum ’s 
the word.” 

At the forge cottage he wished them good-night. 

“Then you don’t want us in court to-morrow?” 
Mr. Verney asked. 

“Mum’s the word,” was all that Dobbs replied, 
with a chuckle. 

Thomas Barnes’ train being late, Mary did not get 
to bed until after twelve that night. She laid her head 
on the pillow with particular satisfaction, for the last 
and most difficult part of the distribution of Uncle 
Herbert’s money was over. 

VI 

The next day Mary sent Uncle Herbert a long de- 
scription of her duties as almoner, and inclosed the 
account. What with postages and her railway fare, she 
had spent altogether £4, 18s. lid. 

Two days later this letter came back from Uncle 
Herbert : — 

Dear Mary, — 

You are as good an almoner as I could wish, and I hope 
that another chance of setting you to work will come. Put 
the thirteen pence that are over into a box labeled “The 
Almoner’s Fund.” Then take the inclosed postal order for 
a pound and get it cashed, and the next time you are in 
Westerfield buy Mr. Verney a box of cigarettes, but be sure 
to find out first what kind he likes. Also give Harry six 
shillings. I dare say he has broken his bicycle or wants some 
187 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

more films: at any rate, he will not say no. The rest is for 
yourself to buy something purely for yourself with. Please 
tell your mother that I am coming on Saturday by the train 
reaching you at 5.08. I shall walk from the station, but 
I want Thomas Barnes to fetch my bag. 

Your affectionate 

Uncle Herbert. 

Whether or no Thomas Barnes knew where the truck 
came from we never found out; but at Christmas time 
he was discovered among the waits who sang carols 
on the Stavelys’ lawn. 


THE PICKWICK CLUB GO 
SHOOTING 

By Charles Dickens 

T HE sky was cloudless; the sun shone out bright 
and warm; the songs of birds, and hum of myriads 
of summer insects, filled the air; and the cottage 
gardens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beau- 
tiful tint, sparkled in the heavy dew, like beds of 
glittering jewels. Everything bore the stamp of sum- 
mer, and none of its beautiful colors had yet faded 
from the die. 

Such was the morning when an open carriage, in 
which were three Pickwickians (Mr. Snodgrass having 
preferred to remain at home), Mr. Wardle, and Mr. 
Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver, 
pulled up by a gate at the roadside, before which stood 
a tall, raw-boned gamekeeper and a half -booted, leather- 
legginged boy: each bearing a bag of capacious dimen- 
sions, and accompanied by a brace of pointers. 

“I say,” whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the 
man let down the steps, “they don’t suppose we ’re 
going to kill game enough to fill those bags, do they?” 

“Fill them!” exclaimed old Wardle. “Bless you 
yes! you shall fill one, and I the other; and when 
we’ve done with them, the pockets of our shooting 
jackets will hold as much more.” 

189 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Mr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything in 
reply to this observation; but he thought within him- 
self, that if the party remained in the open air until 
he had filled one of the bags, they stood a considerable 
chance of catching colds in their heads. 

“Hi, June, lass — hi, old girl; down, Daph, down,” 
said Wardle, caressing the dogs. “Sir Geoffrey still 
in Scotland, of course, Martin?” 

The tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative, and 
looked with some surprise from Mr. Winkle, who was 
holding his gun as if he wished his coat pocket to save 
him the trouble of pulling the trigger, to Mr. Tupman, 
who was holding his as if he were afraid of it — as 
there is no earthly reason to doubt he really was. 

“My friends are not much in the way of this sort of 
thing yet, Martin,” said Wardle, noticing the look. 
“Live and learn, you know. They’ll be good shots one 
of these days. I beg my friend Winkle’s pardon, though; 
he has had some practice.” 

Mr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue neckerchief 
in acknowledgment of the compliment, and got himself 
so mysteriously entangled with his gun in his modest 
confusion, that if the piece had been loaded, he must 
inevitably have shot himself dead upon the spot. 

“You must n’t handle your piece in that ’ere way 
when you come to have the charge in it, sir,” said the 
tall gamekeeper, gruffly, “or you will make cold meat 
of some of us.” 

Mr. Winkle, thus admonished, abruptly altered its 
position, and in so doing contrived to bring the barrel 
into pretty smart contact with Mr. Weller’s head. 

190 


THE PICKWICK CLUB GO SHOOTING 

“Hallo!” said Sam, picking up his hat, which had 
been knocked off, and rubbing his temple. “Hallo, 
sir ! If you comes it this vay, you ’ll fill one o’ them 
bags, and something to spare, at one fire.” 

Here the leather-legginged boy laughed very heart- 
ily, and then tried to look as if it was somebody else, 
whereat Mr. Winkle frowned majestically. 

“Where did you tell the boy to meet us with the 
snack, Martin?” inquired Wardle. 

“Side of One-tree Hill, at twelve o’clock, sir.” 

“That ’s not Sir Geoffrey’s land, is it?” 

“No, sir, but it’s close by it. It’s Captain Boldwig’s 
land; but there’ll be nobody to interrupt us, and there’s 
a fine bit of turf there.” 

“Very well,” said old Wardle. “Now the sooner 
we ’re off the better. Will you join us at twelve, then, 
Pickwick?” 

Mr. Pickwick was particularly desirous to view 
sport, the more especially as he was rather anxious in 
respect of Mr. Winkle’s life and limbs. On so inviting 
a morning, too, it was very tantalizing to turn back, and 
leave his friends to enjoy themselves. It was, therefore, 
with a very rueful air that he replied: — 

“Why, I suppose I must.” 

“Ain’t the gentleman a shot, sir?” inquired the long 
gamekeeper. 

“No,” replied Wardle, “and he’s lame besides.” 

“I should like very much to go,” said Mr. Pickwick, 
“very much.” 

There was a short pause of consideration. 

“There’s a barrow t’other side the hedge,” said the 
191 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

boy. “ If the gentleman’s servant would wheel along 
the paths, he could keep nigh us, and we could lift it 
over the stiles and that.” 

“The wery thing,” said Mr. Weller, who was a party 
interested, inasmuch as he ardently longed to see the 
sport. “The wery thing. Well said, Smallcheck; I’ll 
have it out in a minute.” 

But here a difficulty arose. 

The long gamekeeper resolutely protested against 
the introduction into a shooting party of a gentleman 
in a barrow, as a gross violation of all established rules 
and precedents. 

It was a great objection, but not an unsurmountable 
one. 

The gamekeeper having been coaxed and feed, and 
having, moreover, eased his mind by punching the 
head of the inventive youth who had first suggested the 
use of the machine, Mr. Pickwick was placed in it, and 
off the party set; Wardle and the long gamekeeper 
leading the way, and Mr. Pickwick in the barrow, pro- 
pelled by Sam, bringing up the rear. 

“Stop, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, when they had got 
half across the first field. 

“What ’s the matter now?” said Wardle. 

“I won’t suffer this barrow to be moved another 
step,” said Mr. Pickwick resolutely, “unless Winkle 
carries that gun of his in a different manner.” 

“How am I to carry it?” said the wretched Winkle. 

“Carry it with the muzzle to the ground,” replied 
Mr. Pickwick. 

“It ’s so unsportsmanlike,” reasoned Winkle. 

192 


THE PICKWICK CLUB GO SHOOTING 

“I don’t care whether it’s unsportsmanlike or not, 
replied Mr. Pickwick; “I’m not going to be shot in a 
wheelbarrow for the sake of appearances, to please 
anybody.” 

“I know the gentleman’ll put that ’ere charge into 
somebody afore he ’s done,” growled the long man. 

“Well, well — I don’t mind,” said poor Mr. Winkle, 
turning his gunstock uppermost; — “there.” 

“Anythin’ for a quiet life,” said Mr. Weller. And 
on they went again. 

“Stop!” said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a 
few yards farther. 

“What now?” said Wardle. 

“That gun of Tup man’s is not safe: I know it is n’t,” 
said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Eh? What! not safe?” said Mr. Tupman in a 
tone of great alarm. 

“Not as you are carrying it,” said Mr. Pickwick. 
“I am very sorry to make any further objection, but I 
cannot consent to go on, unless you carry it as Winkle 
does his.” 

“I think you had better, sir,” said the long game- 
keeper, “or you’re quite as likely to lodge the charge 
in yourself as in anything else.” 

Mr. Tupman, with the most obliging haste, placed 
his piece in the position required, and the party moved 
on again, the two amateurs marching with reversed 
arms, like a couple of privates at a royal funeral. 

The dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the 
party, advancing stealthily a single pace, stopped 
too. 


193 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“What’s the matter with the dogs’ legs?” whispered 
Mr. Winkle. “How queer they’re standing.” 

“Hush, can’t you?” replied Wardle softly. “Don’t 
you see, they’re making a point?” 

“Making a point!” said Mr. Winkle, staring about 
him, as if he expected to discover some particular 
beauty in the landscape, which the sagacious animals 
were calling special attention to. “Making a point! 
What are they pointing at? ” 

“Keep your eyes open,” said Wardle, not heeding 
the question in the excitement of the moment. “Now, 
then.” 

There.'was a sharp whirring noise, that made Mr. 
Winkle start back as if he had been shot himself. Bang , 
bang , went a couple of guns; the smoke swept quickly 
away over the field and curled into the air. 

“Where are they?” said Mr. Winkle, in a state of 
the highest excitement, turning around and around in 
all directions. “Where are they? Tell me when to fire. 
Where are they — where are they?” 

“Where are they?” said Wardle, taking up a brace 
of birds which the dogs had deposited at his feet. 
“Where are they! Why, here they are.” 

“No, no; I mean the others,” said the bewildered 
Winkle. 

“Far enough off by this time,” replied Wardle, 
coolly reloading his gun. 

“We shall very likely be up with another covey in 
five minutes,” said the long gamekeeper. “If the gen- 
tleman begins to fire now, perhaps he’ll just get the 
shot out of the barrel by the time they rise.” 

194 



“WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH THE DOGS’ LEGS?” 
WHISPERED MR. WINKLE 



















































THE PICKWICK CLUB GO SHOOTING 

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Mr. Weller. 

“Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his fol- 
lower’s confusion and embarrassment. 

“Sir.” 

“Don’t laugh.” 

“Certainly not, sir.” So, by way of indemnification, 
Mr. Weller contorted his features from behind the 
wheelbarrow, for the exclusive amusement of the boy 
with the leggings, who thereupon burst into a bois- 
terous laugh, and was summarily cuffed by the long 
gamekeeper, who wanted a pretext for turning around, 
to hide his own merriment. 

“Bravo, old fellow!” said Wardle to Mr. Tupman; 
“you fired that time, at all events.” 

“Oh, yes,” replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious 
pride, “I let it off.” 

“Well done. You’ll hit something next time, if 
you look sharp. Very easy, ain’t it? ” 

“Yes, it’s very easy,” said Mr. Tupman. “How it 
hurts one’s shoulder, though. It nearly knocked me 
backward. I had no idea these small firearms kicked 
so.” 

“Ah,” said the old gentleman, smiling. “You’ll get 
used to it in time. Now, then — ready — all right with 
the barrow there? ” 

“All right, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“Come along, then.” 

“Hold hard, sir,” said Sam, raising the barrow. 

“Aye, aye,” replied Mr. Pickwick. And on they 
went, as briskly as need be. 

“Keep that barrow back now,” cried Wardle, when 
195 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

it had been hoisted over a stile into another field and 
Mr. Pickwick had been deposited in it once more. 

“All right, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, pausing. 

“Now, Winkle,” said the old gentleman, “follow 
me softly, and don’t be too late this time.” 

“Never fear,” said Winkle. “Are they pointing?” 

“No, no; not now. Quietly, now, quietly.” 

On they crept, and very quietly they would have 
advanced, if Mr. Winkle, in the performance of some 
very intricate evolutions with his gun, had not 
accidentally fired, at the most critical moment, over 
the boy’s head, exactly in the very spot where the 
tall man’s brains would have been, had he been there 
instead. 

“Why, what on earth did you do that for?” said old 
Wardle, as the birds flew unharmed away. 

“I never saw such a gun in my life,” replied poor 
Winkle, looking at the lock, as if that would do any 
good. “ It goes off of its own accord. It will do it.” 

“Will do it!” echoed Wardle, with something of irri- 
tation in his manner. “I wish it would kill something 
of its own accord.” 

“It’ll do that afore long, sir,” observed the tall 
man in a low, prophetic voice. 

“What do you mean by that observation, sir?” in- 
quired Mr. Winkle, angrily. 

“Never mind, sir, never mind,” replied the long 
gamekeeper; “I’ve no family myself, sir; and this here 
boy’s mother will get something handsome from Sir 
Geoffrey if he’s killed on his land. Load again, sir, 
load again.” 


196 


THE PICKWICK CLUB GO SHOOTING 

“Take away his gun,” cried Mr. Pickwick from 
the barrow, horror-stricken at the long man’s dark 
insinuations. “Take away his gun, do you hear, 
somebody?” 

Nobody, however, volunteered to obey the com- 
mand; and Mr. Winkle, after darting a rebellious 
glance at Mr. Pickwick, reloaded his gun and pro- 
ceeded onward with the rest. 

We are bound, on the authority of Mr. Pickwick, 
to state that Mr. Tupman’s mode of proceeding evinced 
far more of prudence and deliberation than that 
adopted by Mr. Winkle. Still, this by no means de- 
tracts from the great authority of the latter gentleman 
on all matters connected with the field; because, as 
Mr. Pickwick beautifully observes, it has somehow or 
other happened, from time immemorial, that many of 
the best and ablest philosophers, who have been per- 
fect lights of science in matters of theory, have been 
wholly unable to reduce them to practice. 

Mr. Tupman’s process, like many of our most sub- 
lime discoveries, was extremely simple. With the 
quickness and penetration of a man of genius, he had 
at once observed that the two great points to be at- 
tained were — first, to discharge his piece without 
injury to himself, and, secondly, to do so without 
danger to the bystanders; obviously the best thing 
to do, after surmounting the difficulty of firing at all, 
was to shut his eyes firmly, and fire into the air. 

On one occasion, after performing this feat, Mr. 
Tupman, on opening his eyes, beheld a plump partridge 
in the very act of falling wounded to the ground. He 
197 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

was on the point of congratulating Mr. Wardle on his 
invariable success, when that gentleman advanced 
toward him and grasped him warmly by the hand. 

“Tupman,” said the old gentleman, ‘‘you singled out 
that particular bird.” 

“No,” said Mr. Tupman — “no.” 

“You did,” said Wardle. “I saw you do it — I ob- 
served you pick him out — I noticed you as you 
raised your piece to take aim; and I will say this that 
the best shot in existence could not have done it more 
beautifully. You are an older hand at this than I 
thought you, Tupman; you have been out before.” 

It was in vain for Mr. Tupman to protest, with a 
smile of self-denial, that he never had. The very smile 
was taken as evidence to the contrary; and from that 
time forth his reputation was established. It is not the 
only reputation that has been acquired as easily, nor 
are such fortunate circumstances confined to partridge 
shooting. 


THE PICKWICK CLUB ON THE 
ICE 

By Charles Dickens 



ELL, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, as that favored 


T T servitor entered his bedchamber with his warm 
water, on the morning of Christmas day, “still frosty?” 

“Water in the wash-hand basin ’s a mask o’ ice, sir,” 
responded Sam. 

“Severe weather, Sam,” observed Mr. Pickwick. 

“Fine time for them as is well wropped up, as the 
Polar Bear said to himself, ven he was practicing his 
skating,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“I shall be down in a quarter of an hour, Sam,” 
said Mr. Pickwick, untying his nightcap. 

“Wery good, sir,” replied Sam. . . . 

“Now,” said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, when 
the agreeable items of strong beer and cherry brandy 
had been done ample justice to, “what say you to an 
hour on the ice? We shall have plenty of time.” 

“Capital!” said Mr. Benjamin Allen. 

“Prime!” ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

“You skate, of course, Winkle?” said Wardle. 

“Ye — yes; oh, yes”; replied Mr. Winkle. “I — 
I — am rather out of practice.” 

“Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle,” said Arabella. “I like 
to see it so much.” 


199 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“Oh, it is so graceful,” said another young lady. 

A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth 
expressed her opinion that it was “swanlike.” 

“I should be very happy, I am sure,” said Mr. 
Winkle, reddening; “but I have no skates.” 

This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had 
got a couple of pair, and the fat boy announced that 
there were half a dozen more downstairs! whereat 
Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked ex- 
quisitely uncomfortable. 

Old War die led the way to a pretty large sheet of 
ice; and the fat boy and Mr. Weller, having shoveled 
and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during 
the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a 
dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvelous, 
and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures 
of eight; and inscribed upon the ice, without once 
stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and 
astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of 
Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies; which 
reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm when old 
Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid 
Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions which 
they called a reel. 

All this time Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands 
blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the 
soles of his feet, and putting his skates on, with the 
points behind, and getting the straps into a very com- 
plicated and entangled state, with the assistance of 
Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than 
a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of 
200 


THE PICKWICK CLUB ON THE ICE 

Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed 
and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet. 

“Now, then, sir,” said Sam, in an encouraging tone, 
“off with you, and show ’em how to do it.” 

“Stop, Sam, stop!” said Mr. Winkle, trembling 
violently, and clutching hold of Sam’s arms with the 
grasp of a drowning man. “How slippery it is, Sam!” 

“Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir,” replied 
Mr. Weller. “Hold up, sir!” 

This last observation of Mr. Weller’s bore reference 
to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the instant of 
a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air and dash 
the back of his head on the ice. 

“These — these — are very awkward skates; ain’t 
they, Sam?” inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering. 

“I’m afeerd there’s an orkard gen’l’m’n in ’em, sir,” 
replied Sam. 

“Now, Winkle,” cried Mr. Pickwick, quite uncon- 
scious that there was anything the matter. “Come; 
the ladies are all anxiety.” 

“Yes, yes,” replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly 
smile. “I’m coming.” 

“Just a-goin’ to begin,” said Sam, endeavoring to 
disengage himself. “Now, sir, start off!” 

“Stop an instant, Sam,” gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging 
most affectionately to Mr. Weller. “I find I’ve got a 
couple of coats at home that I don’t want, Sam. You 
may have them, Sam.” 

“Thank’ee, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“Never mind touching your hat, Sam,” said Mr. 
Winkle, hastily. “You need n’t take your hand away 
201 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings 
this morning for a Christmas box, Sam. I ’ll give it you 
this afternoon, Sam.” 

“You’re wery good, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?” said Mr. 
Winkle. “There — that’s right. I shall soon get in 
the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not too 
fast.” 

Mr. Winkle, stooping forward with his body half 
doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Wel- 
ler, in a very singular and un-swanlike manner, when 
Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the op- 
posite bank: — 

“Sam!” 

“Sir?” said Mr. Weller. 

“Here. I want you.” 

“Let go, sir,” said Sam. “Don’t you hear the gover- 
nor a-callin’? Let go, sir.” 

With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself 
from the grasp of the agonized Pickwickian; and, in 
so doing, administered a considerable impetus to the 
unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no 
degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that 
unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the 
center of the reel at the very moment when Mr. Bob 
Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled 
beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and 
with a loud crash they both fell heavily down. Mr. 
Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to 
his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do any- 
thing of the kind, in skates. He was seated on the ice, 
202 


THE PICKWICK CLUB ON THE ICE 

making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was 
depicted on every lineament of his countenance. 

“Are you hurt?” inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with 
great anxiety. 

“Not much,” said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very 
hard. 

Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beck- 
oned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice, “Take 
his skates off.” 

“No; but really I had scarcely begun,” remon- 
strated Mr. Winkle. 

“Take his skates off,” repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly. 

The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle 
allowed Sam to obey it in silence. 

“Lift him up,” said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him 
to rise. 

Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces from the by- 
standers; and, beckoning his friend to approach, fixed 
a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low but 
distinct and emphatic tone these remarkable words : — 

“You’re a humbug, sir.” 

“A what?” said Mr. Winkle, starting. 

“A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. 
An impostor, sir.” 

With these words Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on 
his heel and rejoined his friends. 

While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the 
sentiment just recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, 
having by their joint endeavors cut out a slide, were 
exercising themselves thereupon, in a very masterly 
and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was 
203 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

displaying that beautiful feat of fancy sliding which 
is currently denominated “knocking at the cobbler’s 
door,” and which is achieved by skimming over the 
ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a twopenny 
postman’s knock upon it with the other. It was a good 
long slide, and there was something in the motion which 
Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, 
could not help envying. 

“It looks a nice warm exercise that, does n’t it?” he 
inquired of Wardle, when that gentleman was thor- 
oughly out of breath, by reason of the indefatigable 
manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair 
of compasses and drawn complicated problems on the 
ice. 

“Ah, it does, indeed,” replied Wardle. “Do you 
slide?” 

“I used to do so, on the gutters, w T hen I was a boy,” 
replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“Try it now,” said Wardle. 

“Oh, do, please, Mr. Pickwick,” cried all the ladies. 

“I should be very happy to afford you any amuse- 
ment,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “but I have n’t done such 
a thing these thirty years.” 

“Pooh! pooh! nonsense!” said Wardle, dragging off 
his skates with the impetuosity which characterized 
all his proceedings. “Here: I’ll keep you company; 
come along.” And away went the good-tempered old 
fellow down the slide, with a rapidity which came very 
close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all to 
nothing. 

Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves 
204 

































THE PICKWICK CLUB ON THE ICE 

and put them in his hat, took two or three short runs, 
balked himself as often, and at last took another run, 
and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his 
feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the 
gratified shouts of all the spectators. 

“Keep the pot a-bilin’, sir!” said Sam. And down 
went Wardle again, and then Mr. Pickwick, and then 
Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob Sawyer, 
and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following 
closely upon each other’s heels, and running after each 
other with as much eagerness as if all their future pros- 
pects in life depended on their expedition. 

It was the most intensely interesting thing, to ob- 
serve the manner in which Mr. Pickwick performed his 
share in the ceremony; to watch the torture of anx- 
iety with which he viewed the person behind, gaining 
upon him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; 
to see him gradually expend the painful force which 
he had put on at first, and turn slowly around on the 
slide, with his face toward the point from which he 
had started; to contemplate the playful smile which 
mantled on his face when he had accomplished the 
distance, and the eagerness with which he turned around 
when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor, his 
black gaiters tripping pleasantly through the snow, and 
his eyes beaming cheerfulness and gladness through his 
spectacles. And when he was knocked down (which 
happened upon the average every third round), it 
was the most invigorating sight that can possibly be 
imagined to behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and 
handkerchief, with a glowing countenance, and resume 
205 


THE' BOOK OF HUMOR 

his station in the rank, with an ardor and enthusiasm 
which nothing could abate. 

The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the 
quickest, the laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp, 
smart crack was heard. There was a quick rush toward 
the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout 
from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared; 
the water bubbled up over it; Mr. Pickwick’s hat, 
gloves, and handkerchief were floating on the surface; 
and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody could 
see. 

Dismay and anguish were depicted on every coun- 
tenance; the males turned pale, the females fainted; 
Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each other by 
the hand and gazed at the spot where their leader had 
gone down with frenzied eagerness; while Mr. Tupman, 
by way of rendering the promptest assistance, and at 
the same time conveying to any persons who might 
be within hearing the clearest possible notion of the 
catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost 
speed, screaming “Fire!” with all his might. 

It was at this very moment, when old Wardle and 
Sam Weller were approaching the hole with cautious 
steps, that a face, head, and shoulders emerged from 
beneath the water and disclosed the features and 
spectacles of Mr. Pickwick. 

“Keep yourself up for an instant — for only one in- 
stant,” bawled Mr. Snodgrass. 

“Yes, do; let me implore you — for my sake,” 
roared Mr. Winkle, deeply affected. The adjuration was 
rather unnecessary, the probability being that if Mr. 

206 


THE PICKWICK CLUB ON THE ICE 

Pickwick had declined to keep himself up for anybody 
else’s sake, it would have occurred to him that he 
might as well do so for his own. 

“Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?” said 
Wardle. 

“Yes, certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing 
the water from his head and face and gasping for 
breath. “I fell upon my back. I could n’t get on my 
feet at first.” 

The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick’s coat as 
was yet visible bore testimony to the accuracy of 
this statement; and as the fears of the spectators were 
still further relieved by the fat boy’s suddenly recol- 
lecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet 
deep, prodigies of valor were performed to get him out. 
After a vast quantity of splashing, and cracking, and 
struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length fairly extricated 
from his unpleasant position and once more stood on 
dry land. 

“Oh, he’ll catch his death of cold,” said Emily. 

“Dear old thing!” said Arabella. “Let me wrap this 
shawl around you, Mr. Pickwick.” 

“Ah, that’s the best thing you can do,” said Wardle, 
“and when you’ve got it on, run home as fast as your 
legs can carry you, and jump into bed directly.” 

A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or 
four of the thickest having been selected, Mr. Pick- 
wick was wrapped up, and started off, under the guid- 
ance of Mr. Weller, presenting the singular phenomenon 
of an elderly gentleman, dripping wet, and without 
a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming 
207 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


over the ground, without any clearly defined purpose, 
at the rate of six good English miles an hour. 

But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such 
an extreme case, and, urged on by Sam Weller, he kept 
at the very top of his speed until he reached the door 
of Manor Farm. 


WOMAN’S SPHERE 

By S. H. Kemper 

W ILBUR, dear,” said Aunt Susan, “Rosa is very 
busy with the washing this morning, and if 
you will go down into the garden and gather this 
basket full of peas and then shell them for her to cook 
for dinner, I will — ” Aunt Susan paused to reflect a 
moment and then continued, “I will give you a new 
ball for a birthday present.” 

Aunt Susan smiled kindly at the flashing look of in- 
tense joy that Wilbur lifted to her face as he seized the 
basket she was holding out to him. 

“I — I M just love to have it!” he exclaimed. He 
was quite overcome with emotion and tore away 
toward the garden at top speed. 

Wilbur’s mother was ill, and Wilbur had been sent 
to visit Aunt Susan in order that the house might be 
quiet. Aunt Susan was really Wilbur’s father’s aunt. 
She was grandma’s sister, and she was very old. 
Grandma was not old. Her hair was white, but it went 
in nice squiggles around her face, and she wore big 
hats with plumes and shiny, rustly dresses and high- 
heeled shoes. And when she kissed you she clasped you 
in a powerful embrace against her chest. Grandma was 
not old. But Aunt Susan, with her smooth gray hair 
and her wrinkled face and spectacles, her plain black 
209 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


dress and little shawl, and her funny cloth shoes, 
seemed to Wilbur a being inconceivably stricken of eld. 
You felt intensely sorry for her for being so old. You 
were so sorry that you felt it inside of you; it was al- 
most as if your stomach ached. And she was always 
kind and gentle. You felt that it would be a grievous 
thing to hurt her feelings or trouble her in any way. 

Wilbur’s birthday came on Thursday and this was 
only Monday. A long time to wait. Wilbur needed a 
ball very badly. He had made friends with a number 
of boys here in Aunt Susan’s town, and the baseball 
season was at its height. Wilbur’s friends owned sev- 
eral perfectly worthy bats and two or three gloves, 
but there was a serious lack of balls. 

That afternoon, joining the boys on the vacant lot 
where they played, Wilbur informed them with great 
satisfaction of Aunt Susan’s promise. 

“My aunt is going to give me a new ball on my 
birthday,” he said to them. 

They were more than pleased with the news. Wilbur 
found himself the center of flattering interest. He told 
them that he guessed it would be a regular league ball. 

Wilbur exerted himself earnestly to be helpful to 
Aunt Susan and Rosa all day on Tuesday and Wed- 
nesday. He felt that he could not do enough for Aunt 
Susan, and also that it would be well to remind her of 
her promise by constant acts of courtesy and service, 
for it was a long time before Thursday. But it did not 
seem possible that anyone could really forget an affair 
so important and so agreeable as the purchase of a ball. 
Wilbur knew where Aunt Susan would get the ball: 

210 


WOMAN’S SPHERE 


at Reiter’s store, of course. Reiter kept a store where 
books and magazines and athletic goods were sold. 
He kept all the standard things; the ball would be of 
a good make, Wilbur was sure. 

Aunt Susan did not often go downtown. Except 
when busy about her housekeeping, she was likely to 
spend the time rocking in her old-fashioned rocker on 
the front porch with a workbasket beside her, occu- 
pying herself with needlework or knitting. She knitted 
a great deal. There were many bright-colored wools in 
her workbasket. 

On Wednesday afternoon Wilbur’s heart gave an 
excited jump w r hen he saw Aunt Susan coming down- 
stairs tying her little bonnet over her gray hair. Her 
black silk shopping bag hung on her arm. Wilbur did 
not doubt that she was going downtown with an eye 
single to Reiter’s store. He assumed an unconscious 
air, just as one did when mother went shopping before 
Christmas. He watched Aunt Susan out of sight and 
afterwards hung about the front yard till he saw her 
returning. He ran to open the gate for her and took her 
parasol and bag, looking up at her with bright, trustful 
eyes. The bag seemed quite full of small parcels as he 
carried it for Aunt Susan. 

Wilbur fell asleep that night wondering whether 
Aunt Susan would put the ball on the breakfast table 
next morning, where he would see it when he entered 
the dining room. Perhaps she would bring it after he 
was asleep, and place it on the chair beside his bed, or 
perhaps on the old-fashioned bureau. There were many 
happy possibilities. 


211 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


When the window opposite his bed began to grow 
bright with the pink and gold of sunrise, Wilbur woke 
and sat up, looking first at the chair, then at the bureau. 

No, it was not in the room. It would be in the din- 
ing room, then. When he went downstairs he was sur- 
prised to find that Aunt Susan had not yet left her room. 
In the kitchen Rosa was only beginning her prepara- 
tions for breakfast. Wilbur spent a long time, a restless 
but happy hour, waiting, idling about the dewy garden 
and front yard, feeding the chickens and playing with 
the cat. 

At last Rosa rang the bell and Wilbur went into the 
house. Aunt Susan, seated at the breakfast table, 
greeted him affectionately. 

“Many happy returns, dear!” she said, holding out 
her hand. She drew him to her and kissed his cheek. 
Now, surely — but the ball was not on the table beside 
his plate. He could not see it anywhere in the room. 

The breakfasts at Aunt Susan’s were always good. 
There would be fried chicken and waffles or muffins 
and squashy corn bread. Indeed, all mealtimes at 
Aunt Susan’s would have been periods of unmixed joy 
if Aunt Susan had not felt obliged to keep up a steady 
conversation. Aunt Susan made small talk laboriously, 
It distracted your mind. She had a strange delusion 
that one was avidly interested in one’s schoolbooks. 
She constantly dwelt upon the subject of school. It 
made things difficult, for school was over now and all 
its rigors happily forgotten. This morning, what with 
Aunt Susan’s talk and his excitement, Wilbur could 
hardly eat anything. 


212 


WOMAN’S SPHERE 

Breakfast was over. Aunt Susan and Rosa were in 
the pantry consulting on housekeeping matters. Wilbur 
sat down in a rocking chair on the front porch and 
waited. He waited and waited, rocking violently. And 
then at last he heard Aunt Susan calling him. 

He was out of his chair and in the hall like a flash. 

“Yes’m,” he answered. “Yes’m? What is it, Aunt 
Susan?” 

Aunt Susan was coming down the stairs. 

“Here is the ball I promised you, dear,” she said. 
She placed it in his outstretched hand — 

Wilbur had visualized it so vividly, he imagined the 
desired thing with such intensity, that it was as if a 
strange transformation had taken place before his eyes. 
He was holding, not the hard, heavy, white ball he 
had seemed actually to see, with its miraculously per- 
fect stitching and the trim lettering of the name upon 
it; a curious, soft thing lay in his hand, a home-made 
ball constructed of wools. There seemed to be mil- 
lions of short strands of bright-colored wools all held 
together in the center by some means and sticking out 
in every direction. Their smoothly clipped ends formed 
the surface of the ball. 

It was the kind of thing you would give a baby in a 
go-cart. 

Wilbur stood and gazed at it. The kind of thing you 
would give a baby in a go-cart! Then he looked up at 
Aunt Susan, and suddenly the sense of his great disap- 
pointment was lost in that immense, aching pity for her. 
She was so old, and she had made it herself, thinking 
it would please him. 


213 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“It’s — it’s awful pretty!” Wilbur stammered. 
He felt inexpressibly sorry for Aunt Susan. How 
could anyone be so utterly without comprehension! 

Aunt Susan patted his cheek 

“You have been a good boy,” she said. “I hope 
you will enjoy playing at ball with your little 
friends.” 

Wilbur went cold. The other fellows! He foresaw 
well enough their attitude toward his misfortune. To 
them it would seem a subject for unsparing derision. 
The kind of thing you would give a baby in a go-cart! 
And he had said, “I guess it will be a regular league 
ball.” 

Aunt Susan went away upon her housekeeping ac- 
tivities, and Wilbur, after standing for a while turning 
the woolly ball in his hands, went upstairs to his room. 
He hid the ball under the neatly folded garments in 
the upper drawer of the bureau. It was a relief to get 
it out of sight. He had a heavy, sickish feeling in his 
chest. The more he thought over his trouble the greater 
it seemed. A great dread of having the other boys know 
about it possessed him. He felt that he could not pos- 
sibly bear the ignominy. 

The morning dragged itself heavily away. Wilbur 
remained indoors. He could not go out for fear the 
other fellows might see him. He winced painfully at 
the thought of meeting them. 

Rosa baked a fine cake for him, decorating it taste- 
fully with nine pink candles, but Wilbur regarded it 
wanly. 

At dinner Aunt Susan noticed his lack of appetite 
214 


WOMAN’S SPHERE 

and fussed over him anxiously, dismaying his soul 
with dark hints of doses of medicine. 

“I don’t feel a bit sick, Aunt Susan,” he protested, 
“honest, I don’t.” 

He felt almost desperate. He was heavy-hearted 
with his disappointment, oppressed with the fear of 
discovery; and now he must be harried and pursued 
with threats of medicine. 

It was a miserable afternoon. Wilbur undertook to 
write a letter to his mother. Usually Aunt Susan was 
obliged to urge him to this duty, but to-day it offered 
an excuse to remain indoors and Wilbur seized it gladly. 
Writing a letter was a business that took time and 
effort. After a while, as Wilbur sat in the attitude of 
composition, with his legs wrapped around the legs 
of his chair and his shoulders hunched over the table. 
Aunt Susan’s anxious eye detected the fact that he 
was not writing but was absently chewing his pencil. 

“Wilbur, dear,” Aunt Susan said, “you are staying 
in the house too much. Put your letter away now and 
run out of doors. I think you need the fresh air. You 
can finish your letter to-morrow.” 

“Oh, I would rather finish it now, please,” Wilbur 
said; “you know poppa is coming to see us this even- 
ing, and if I get it done I can give it to him to take to 
mamma.” 

He hastily stuck out his tongue, and breathing heav- 
ily, began to write. 

Throughout the afternoon Wilbur contrived by one 
excuse or another to remain in the house. After the 
early tea Aunt Susan sat down in one of the porch 
215 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

rockers with her knitting and Wilbur sedately took 
another. With great effort he sustained the conver- 
sation which Aunt Susan considered necessary. Pres- 
ently, with a throb of alarm, Wilbur saw Henry, the 
boy who lived next door, climbing the fence dividing 
the two yards. With fascinated dread Wilbur watched 
him approach. He stood still at the foot of the porch 
steps. 

“Hello,” he said in his deep and husky voice. 

“Hello,” Wilbur replied coldly. 

“Good evening, Henry,” said Aunt Susan; “sit 
down and make us a visit. How is your father? How 
is your mother? When is your married sister coming 
home for a visit?” And so on. 

Henry sat down on the steps, answering Aunt Susan 
with weary civility. Wilbur rocked and rocked with 
nervous violence. Sitting in a chair like a grown person, 
he felt a certain aloofness from Henry on the steps. 
It was a poor enough security, but he clung to it. And 
then suddenly Aunt Susan was saying : — 

“Wilbur, get the ball I gave you and play a game of 
ball with Henry.” 

The moment of discovery had come. And Wilbur 
found himself wondering dully what Aunt Susan’s 
idea of a ball game could be like. His mind seemed to 
fumble stiffly with the unimportant thought. He rose 
heavily. Henry had snapped up briskly from his 
place on the steps as Aunt Susan spoke. 

“That’s right!” he said. “Let’s get out there in the 
road and warm up.” 

Wilbur turned to enter the house. 

216 


WOMAN’S SPHERE 


“I’ll go with you,” Henry said. 

They ascended the stairs, Wilbur lagging on every 
step and Henry breasting forward like a homeward- 
bound horse. They crossed the little upstairs hall and 
stood at the door of Wilbur’s room. The woolly ball 
lay on the bureau, its many colors garish in the sun- 
set. Wilbur had left it in the drawer, but Rosa had 
been in the room putting away his freshly ironed clothes, 
and had taken it out and placed it on top of the bureau 
for all the world to see. 

Wilbur shut his eyes and waited for a bitter outcry 
from Henry. There was, however, a moment of silence, 
and then Henry demanded impatiently: — 

“Well, where is it at?” 

Wilbur opened his eyes and regarded Henry stupidly. 
Henry then did not even recognize the strange, bright 
object on the bureau as a ball. Probably he took it for 
a pincushion. The shock of the unexpected reprieve 
made Wilbur feel faint and confused. 

“It’s here — it’s right in this room,” he stammered. 

“In the bruy-yo?” Henry asked, pointing toward 
the old-fashioned bureau. 

“I — I left it in the top drawer of the bruy-yo.” 

Henry went and opened the drawers one by one and 
rummaged in them. 

“It ain’t here!” he exclaimed; “I bet somebody’s 
stolen it from you! The colored girl ! I bet she ’s stolen 
it!” 

“Aw, she wouldn’t steal! She’s nice!” Wilbur ex- 
claimed; but even as he spoke, he saw his mistake. 
Henry had made the descent to a course of deceit, of 
217 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

hideous disloyalty to a dear friend, fearfully easy! 
Wilbur descended. “ Maybe,” he faltered, “maybe 
she needed a ball awfully and just had to take it! 
Maybe she needed it awfully!” 

“Well, ain’t you going to try to get it back from 
her?” 

“Oh, no!” Wilbur cried in horror. “I won’t say a 
word about it. It would hurt her feelings. She ’s 
nice — ” 

“Well, I bet if it was my ball and anybody stole it 
I would raise an awful row!” 

“I won’t say anything about it,” Wilbur repeated. 
“It would hurt her feelings. And I guess you better 
go home now, Henry. Maybe your mother is wonder- 
ing where you are.” 

Wilbur adopted the formula with which other boys* 
mothers were wont to put him on the social inclined 
plane. He felt a desperate need to be rid of Henry. 
Henry departed without resentment. 

A little later Wilbur’s father came. It was a comfort 
to have poppa there. Wilbur’s tired spirit leaned against 
his big, quiet strength. In the dusk, Aunt Susan and 
poppa sat on the porch and talked. Wilbur stood 
beside poppa’s chair. It was peaceful and cool in the 
late evening. Wilbur liked to hear the noise the katy- 
dids made in the trees. It went on, over and over and 
over — 

Suddenly, as if recollecting something he had for- 
gotten, poppa put his hand into his coat pocket and 
drew out — it was the ball of Wilbur’s dreams. Poppa, 
still talking to Aunt Susan, was holding it out to him. 

218 


WOMAN’S SPHERE 


He saw it in all its utterly desirable excellence, its natty 
charms, hard and heavy and smooth and gleaming 
white. Wilbur’s small brown fingers curved themselves 
feebly upon its taut sides. He did not speak, but his 
long-lashed eyes, brooding upon the perfection within 
his grasp, lifted for a moment to his father’s face a 
deep look of such intensity that poppa was startled. 

“It’s your birthday, old chap,” he said, putting his 
arm around Wilbur. “I thought you might like a new 
ball.” 

He felt Wilbur trembling slightly and wondered 
whether, in spite of the little fellow’s seemingly perfect 
health, he could be an overstrung and nervous child. 

“Now you have two balls,” Aunt Susan said fatu- 
ously, rocking herself in her old rocker. 

“Yes’m,” said Wilbur. From the security of his 
immense felicity he smiled at her kindly, very kindly, 
very indulgently, for how could she understand? 


HOLLO LEARNING TO PLAY 

By Robert J . Burdette 

E ARLY in the afternoon of the same day, Mr. Holli- 
day came home bearing a large package in his 
arms. Not only seldom, but rarely, did anything come 
into the Holliday homestead that did not afford the 
head of the family a text for sermonic instruction, if 
not, indeed, rational discourse. Depositing the pack- 
age upon a hall table, he called to his son in a mandatory 
manner: — 

“Rollo, come to me.” 

Rollo approached, but started with reluctant steps. 
He became reminiscently aware, as he hastily reviewed 
the events of the day, that in carrying out one or two 
measures for the good of the house he had laid him- 
self open to an investigation by a strictly partisan com- 
mittee, and the possibility of such an inquiry, with its 
subsequent report, grieved him. However, he hoped 
for the worst, so that in any event he would not be dis- 
agreeably disappointed, and came running to his 
father, calling, “Yes, sir!” in his cheeriest tones. 

This is the correct form in which to meet any pos- 
sible adversity which is not yet in sight. Because, if 
it should not meet you, you are happy anyhow, and 
if it should meet you, you have been happy before the 
collision. See? 


220 


ROLLO LEARNING TO PLAY 

“Now, Rollo,” said his father, “you are too large and 
strong to be spending your leisure time playing baby 
games with your little brother Thanny. It is time for 
you to begin to be athletic.” 

“What is athletic?” asked Rollo. 

“Well,” replied his father, who was an alumnus 
(pronounced ahloomnoose) himself, “in a general way it 
means to wear a pair of pantaloons either eighteen 
inches too short or six inches too long for you, and 
stand around and yell while other men do your playing 
for you. The reputation for being an athlete may 
also be acquired by wearing a golf suit to church, or 
carrying a tennis racket to your meals. However, as 
I was about to say, I do not wish you to work all the 
time, like a woman, or even a small part of the time, 
like a hired man. I wish you to adopt for your recrea- 
tion games of sport and pastime.” 

Rollo interrupted his father to say that indeed he 
preferred games of that description to games of toil 
and labor, but as he concluded, little Thanny, who 
was sitting on the porch step with his book, suddenly 
read aloud, in a staccato measure. 

4 ‘ I-be-lieve-you-my-boy, -re-plied- -the-man-heart- 

i-ly.” 

“Read to yourself, Thanny,” said his father kindly, 
“and do not speak your syllables in that jerky manner.” 

Thanny subsided into silence, after making two or 
three strange gurgling noises in his throat, which Rollo, 
after several efforts, succeeded in imitating quite well. 
Being older than Thanny, Rollo, of course, could not 
invent so many new noises every day as his little 
221 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

brother. But he could take Thanny’s noises, they being 
unprotected by copyright, and not only reproduce 
them, but even improve upon them. 

This shows the advantage of the higher education. 
“A little learning is a dangerous thing.” It is well for 
every boy to learn that dynamite is an explosive of 
great power, after which it is still better for him to 
learn of how great power. Then he will not hit a cart- 
ridge with a hammer in order to find out, and when 
he dines in good society he can still lift his pie grace- 
fully in his hand, and will not be compelled to harpoon 
it with an iron hook at the end of his forearm. 

Rollo’s father looked at the two boys attentively as 
they swallowed their noises, and then said : — 

“Now, Rollo, there is no sense in learning to play 
a man’s game with a toy outfit. Here are the imple- 
ments of a game which is called baseball, and which I 
am going to teach you to play.” 

So saying he opened the package and handed Rollo 
a bat, a wagon-tongue terror that would knock the 
leather off a planet, and Rollo’s eyes danced as he 
balanced it and pronounced it a “la-la.” 

“It is a bat,” his father said sternly, “a baseball 
bat.” 

“Is that a baseball bat?” exclaimed Rollo, inno- 
cently. 

“Yes, my son,” replied his father, “and here is a 
protector for the hand.” 

Rollo took the large leather pillow and said: — 

“That’s an infielder.” 

“It is a mit,” his father said, “and here is the ball.” 

222 


ROLLO LEARNING TO PLAY 

“That’s a peach,” he cried. 

“It is a baseball,” his father said, “that is what you 
play baseball with.” 

“Is it?” exclaimed Rollo inquiringly. 

“Now,” said Mr. Holliday, as they went into the 
back yard, followed by Thanny, “I will go to bat first, 
and I will let you pitch, so that I may teach you how. 
I will stand here at the end of the barn, then when you 
miss my bat with the ball, as you may sometimes do, 
for you do not yet know how to pitch accurately, the 
barn will prevent the ball from going too far.” 

“That’s the back-stop,” said Rollo. 

“Do not try to be funny, my son,” replied his father; 
“in this great republic only a President of the United 
States is permitted to coin phrases which nobody can 
understand. Now, observe me; when you are at bat 
you stand in this manner.” 

And Mr. Holliday assumed the attitude of a timid 
man who has just stepped on the tail of a strange and 
irascible dog, and is holding his legs so that the animal, 
if he can pull his tail out, can escape without biting 
either of them. He then held the bat up before his 
face as though he was carrying a banner. 

“Now, Rollo, you must pitch the ball directly toward 
the end of my bat. Do not pitch too hard at first, or 
you will tire yourself out before we begin.” 

Rollo held the ball in his hands and gazed at it 
thoughtfully for a moment; he turned and looked at 
the kitchen windows as though he had half a mind to 
break one of them; then wheeling suddenly he sent the 
ball whizzing through the air like a bullet. It passed 
223 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

so close to Mr. Holliday’s face that he dropped the 
bat and his grammar in his nervousness and shouted : — 

“Whata you throw nat? That’s no way to pitch a 
ball ! Pitch it as though you were playing a gentleman’s 
game; not as though you were trying to kill a cat. 
Now, pitch it right here; right at this place on my bat. 
And pitch more gently; the first thing you know you ’ll 
sprain your wrist and have to go to bed. Now, try 
again.” 

This time Rollo kneaded the ball gently, as though 
he suspected it had been pulled before it was ripe. 
He made an offer as though he would throw it to 
Thanny. Thanny made a rush back to an imaginary 
“first,” and Rollo, turning quickly, fired the ball in 
the general direction of Mr. Holliday. It passed about 
ten feet to his right, but none the less he made what 
Thanny called a “swipe” at it that turned him around 
three times before he could steady himself. It then hit 
the end of the bam with a resounding crash that made 
Cotton Mather, the horse, snort with terror in his 
lonely stall. Thanny called out in a nasal, sing-song 
tone : — 

“Strike — one!” 

“Thanny,” said his father severely, “do not let me 
hear a repetition of such language from you. If you 
wish to join our game, you may do so, if you will 
play in a gentlemanly manner. But I will not permit 
the use of slang about this house. Now, Rollo, that 
was better; much better. But you must aim more 
accurately and pitch less violently. You will never 
learn anything until you acquire it, unless you pay at- 
224, 


ROLLO LEARNING TO PLAY 


tention while giving your mind to it. Now, play ball, 
as we say.” 

This time Rollo stooped and rubbed the ball in the 
dirt until his father sharply reprimanded him, saying, 
“You untidy boy; that ball will not be fit to play with! ” 
Then Rollo looked about him over the surrounding 
country as though admiring the pleasant view, and 
with the same startling abruptness as before, faced his 
father and shot the ball in so swiftly that Thanny said 
he could see it smoke. It passed about six feet to the 
left of the batsman, but Mr. Holliday, judging that it 
was coming “dead for him,” dodged, and the ball 
struck his high silk hat with a boom like a drum, 
carrying it on to the “back-stop” in its wild career. 

“Take your base!” shouted Thanny, but suddenly 
checked himself, remembering the new rules on the 
subject of his umpiring. 

“Rollo!” exclaimed his father, “why do you not 
follow my instructions more carefully? That was a 
little better, but still the ball was badly aimed. You 
must not stare around all over creation when you are 
playing ball. How can you throw straight when you 
look at everything in the world except the bat you 
are trying to hit? You must aim right at the bat — 
try to hit it — that's what the pitcher does. And, 
Thanny, let me say to you, and for the last time, that 
I will not permit the slang of the slums to be used 
about this house. Now, Rollo, try again, and be more 
careful and more deliberate.” 

“Father,” said Rollo, “did you ever play baseball 
when you were a young man?” 

225 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“Did I play baseball?” repeated his father, “did 
I play ball? Well, say, I belonged to the Sacred Nine 
out in old Peoria, and I was a holy terror on third, now 
I tell you. One day — ” 

But just at this point in the history it occurred 
to Rollo to send the ball over the plate. Mr. Holliday 
saw it coming; he shut both eyes and dodged for his 
life, but the ball hit his bat and went spinning straight 
up in the air. Thanny shouted “Foul!” ran under it, 
reached up, took it out of the atmosphere, and cried: — 

“Out.” 

“Thanny,” said his father sternly, “another word 
and you shall go straight to bed! If you do not im- 
prove in your habit of language I will send you to the 
reform school. Now, Rollo,” he continued, kindly, 
“that was a great deal better; very much better. I hit 
that ball with almost no difficulty. You are learning. 
But you will learn more rapidly if you do not expend 
so much unnecessary strength in throwing the ball. 
Once more, now, and gently; I do not wish you to injure 
your arm.” 

Rollo leaned forward and tossed the ball toward 
his father very gently indeed, much as his sister Mary 
would have done, only, of course, in a more direct 
line. Mr. Holliday’s eyes lit up with their old fire as 
he saw the oncoming sphere. He swept his bat around 
his head in a fierce semicircle, caught the ball fair 
on the end of it, and sent it over Rollo ’s head, crash- 
ing into the kitchen window amid a jingle of glass and 
a crash of crockery, wild shrieks from the invisible 
maidservant, and delighted howls from Rollo and 
226 


ROLLO LEARNING TO PLAY 

Thanny of “Good boy!” “You own the town!” 
“All the way round!” 

Mr. Holliday was a man whose nervous organism 
was so sensitive that he could not endure the lightest 
shock of excitement. The confusion and general uproar 
distracted him. “Thanny!” he shouted, “go into the 
house! Go into the house and go right to bed!” 

“Thanny,” said Rollo, in a low tone, “you’re sus- 
pended; that’s what you get for jollying the umpire.” 

“Rollo,” said his father, “I will not have you quar- 
reling with Thanny. I can correct him without your 
interference. And besides, you have wrought enough 
mischief for one day. Just see what you have done 
with your careless throwing. You have broken the 
window, and I do not know how many things on the 
kitchen table. You careless, inattentive boy. I should 
do right if I should make you pay for all this damage 
out of your own pocket-money. And I would, if you 
had any. I may do so, nevertheless. And there is 
Jane, bathing her eye at the pump. You have probably 
put it out by your wild pitching. If she dies, I will make 
you wash the dishes until she returns. I thought all 
boys could throw straight naturally without any 
training. You discourage me. Now come here and 
take this bat, and I will show you how to pitch a ball 
without breaking all the glass in the township. And 
see if you can learn to bat any better than you can 
pitch.” 

Rollo took the bat, poised himself lightly, and kept 
up a gentle oscillation of the stick while he waited. 

“Hold it still!” yelled his father, whose nerves were 
227 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


sorely shaken. “How can I pitch a ball to you when 
you keep flourishing that club like an anarchist in 
procession? Hold it still, I tell you!” 

Rollo dropped the bat to an easy slant over his 
shoulder and looked attentively at his father. The 
ball came in. Rollo caught it right on the nose of the 
bat and sent it whizzing directly at the pitcher. Mr. 
Holliday held his hands straight out before him and 
spread his fingers. 

“I’ve got her!” he shouted. 

And then the ball hit his hands, scattered them, and 
passed on against his chest with a jolt that shook his 
system to its foundations. A melancholy howl rent 
the air as he doubled up and tried to rub his chest 
and knead all his fingers on both hands at the same 
time. 

“Rollo,” he gasped, “you go to bed too! Go to bed 
and stay there six weeks. And when you get up, put 
on one of your sister’s dresses and play golf. You’ll 
never learn to play ball if you practice a thousand 
years. I never saw such a boy. You have probably 
broken my lung. And I do not suppose I shall ever use 
my hands again. You can’t play tiddle-de- winks. 
Oh, dear! oh, dear! ” 

Rollo sadly laid away the bat and the ball and went 
to bed, where he and Thanny sparred with pillows until 
tea time, when they were bailed out of prison by their 
mother. Mr. Holliday had recovered his good humor. 
His fingers were multifariously bandaged and he smelled 
of arnica like a drug store. But he was reminiscent and 
animated. He talked of the old times and the old days, 
228 


ROLLO LEARNING TO PLAY 


and of Peoria and Hinman’s, as was his wont oft as he 
felt boyish. 

“And town ball,” he said, “good old town ball! 
There was no limit to the number on a side. The ring 
was anywhere from three hundred feet to a mile in 
circumference, according to whether we played on a 
vacant Pingree lot or out on the open prairie. We tossed 
up a bat — wet or dry — for first choice, and then 
chose the whole school on the sides. The bat was a 
board, about the general shape of a Roman galley oar 
and not quite so wide as a barn door. The ball was of 
solid india rubber; a little fellow could hit it a hundred 
yards and a big boy, with a hickory club, could send 
it clear over the bluffs or across the lake. We broke 
all the windows in the schoolhouse the first day, and 
finished up every pane of glass in the neighborhood 
before the season closed. The side that got its innings 
first kept them until school was out or the last boy 
died. Fun? Good game? Oh, boy of these golden days, 
paying fifty cents an hour for the privilege of watching 
a lot of hired men do your playing for you — it beat 
two-old-cat.” 


HOW ANTHONY RAISED MONEY 
FOR THE BALL GAME 

By Ralph Henry Barbour 

T HE senior president made his little speech and 
introduced the dean. The latter, who never was 
much of an orator, said just what everybody knew he 
would say, and was succeeded by Patterson, the 
manager. Patterson explained the needs of the Base- 
ball Association, and Professor Nast, chairman of the 
Athletic Committee, followed and urged the students 
to come to the support of the team. Neither his re- 
marks nor Patterson’s awakened any enthusiasm, and 
the cheers which followed were plainly to order. Some- 
one at the rear of the hall started a football song and 
one by one the audience took up the refrain. Perkins, 
who had stepped to the front of the platform, paused 
and glanced inquiringly at the head coach. The latter 
shook his head and Joe turned away again. 

“Let them sing,” whispered Hanson. “It’ll warm 
them up.” 

But as soon as it was discovered that there was no 
opposition, the singing died away. King was on his 
feet then, calling for cheers for Captain Perkins. They 
were given loudly enough, but lacked spontaneity. 
Joe’s speech was short, but had the right ring, and 
several allusions to past successes of the nine and future 
230 


ANTHONY RAISED MONEY 


victories awakened applause. But when he had taken 
his seat again and the cheering, in spite of the efforts 
of King and Bissell and others of the team, had ceased, 
it was evident that the meeting was bound to be 
a flat failure unless something was done to wake 
it up. 

Hanson, who was down as the next speaker, called 
Joe to him, and for a minute they whispered together. 
Then Joe crossed the stage and spoke to Anthony. 
At the back of the room there was a perceptible im- 
patience; several fellows had already tiptoed out, and 
there was much scraping of feet. Joe heard it and held 
up his hand. Then Anthony lifted himself up out of 
the ridiculously small chair in which he had been seated 
and moved awkwardly to the front of the platform. 
Instantly there was the sound of clapping, succeeded 
by the cry of “A-a-ay, Tidball! ,, Anthony settled his 
spectacles on his nose and thrust his big hands into 
his trousers’ pockets. 

“Good old Tidball!” cried someone; the remark 
summoned laughter and clapping; men on their feet 
and edging toward the door paused and turned back; 
those who had kept their seats settled themselves more 
comfortably and looked expectant. The senior class 
president jumped to his feet and called for a cheer, and 
the response was encouragingly hearty. Joe threw a 
satisfied glance at Hanson and the latter nodded. The 
tumult died down and Anthony, who had been facing 
the gathering with calm and serious countenance, 
began to speak. 

“Well,” commenced Anthony, in his even, deliberate 
231 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


drawl, “you have your chance to get out, and did n’t 
take it. I guess you’re in for it. I’ve been requested 
to speak to you about baseball. I told Captain Perkins 
that I did n’t know a baseball from a frozen turnip, 
but he said that made it all the better; that if I did n’t 
know what I was talking about, you would realize that 
I was absolutely unprejudiced and my words would 
carry more weight. I said, ‘How are you going to 
get the fellows to listen to me?’ He said, ‘We’ll lock 
the doors.’ I guess they’re locked.” 

Half his audience turned to look, and the rest 
laughed. 

“Anyhow,” Anthony continued, “he kept his part 
of the agreement, and so I ’ll have to keep mine. I ’ ve 
said frankly that I know nothing about baseball, and 
I hope that you will all pardon any mistakes I may 
make in discussing the subject. I never saw but one 
game, and after it was over I knew less about it than 
I did before. A fellow I knew played — well, I don’t 
know just what he did play; most of the time he 
danced around a bag of salt or something someone 
had left out on the grass. There were three of those 
bags, and his was the one on the southeast corner. 
When the game was over, he asked me how I liked it. 
I said, ‘It looks to me like a good game for a lunatic 
asylum.’ He said I showed ignorance; that it was the 
best game in the world, and just full up and slopping 
over with science. I did n’t argue with him. But I ’ve 
always thought that if I had to play baseball I ’d choose 
to be the fellow that wears a black alpaca coat and 
does the talking. Seems to me he’s the only one that 
232 


ANTHONY RAISED MONEY 


remains sane. I asked my friend if he was the keeper: 
he said no, he was the umpire.” 

By this time the laughter was almost continuous; 
but Anthony’s expression of calm gravity remained 
unbroken. At times he appeared surprised and dis- 
turbed by the bursts of laughter; and a small freshman 
in the front row toppled out of his seat and had to be 
thumped on the back. Even the dean was chuckling. 

“Well, science has always been a weak point with 
me, and I guess that ’s why I ’m not able to understand 
the science of hitting a ball with a wagon spoke and 
running over salt bags. But I’m not so narrow- 
minded as to affirm that because I can’t see the science 
it is n’t there. You ’ve all heard about Abraham Lincoln 
and the book agent, I guess. The book agent wanted 
him to write a testimonial for his book. Lincoln wrote 
it. It ran something like this: ‘Any person who likes 
this kind of book will find this just the kind of book he 
likes.’ Well, that’s about my idea of baseball; any- 
body who likes that kind of game will find baseball 
just the kind of game he likes. 

“Now they tell me that down at Robinson they’ve 
found an old wagon wheel, cut the fingers off a pair of 
kid gloves, bought a wire bird cage, and started a base- 
ball club. All right. Let ’em. There are other wheels 
and more gloves and another bird cage, I guess. Cap- 
tain Perkins says he has a club, too. I’ve never seen 
it, but I don’t doubt his word; any man with Titian 
hair tells the truth. He says he keeps it out at the 
field. From what I’ve seen of baseball clubs I think 
that’s a good, safe place. I hope, however, that he 
233 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


locks the gates when he leaves ’em. But Captain 
Perkins tells me that he has the finest kind of a baseball 
club that ever gibbered, and he offers to bet me a sus- 
pender buckle against a pants button that his club 
can knock the spots off of any other club, and especially 
the Robinson club. I ’m not a betting man, and so I let 
him boast. 

“And after he’d boasted until he’d tired himself 
out he went on to say that baseball clubs were like 
any other aggregation of mortals; that they have to 
be clothed and fed, and, moreover, when they go away 
to mingle with other clubs they have to have their rail- 
way fare paid. Captain Perkins, as I have said once al- 
ready, is a truthful man, and so I don’t see but that 
we ’ve got to believe him. He says that his club has n’t 
any money; that if it does n’t get some money it will 
grow pale and thin and emaciated, and won’t be able 
to run around the salt bags as violently as the Robinson 
club; in which case the keeper — I mean the umpire — 
will give the game to Robinson. Well, now, what ’s 
to be done? Are we to stand idly by with our hands in 
our pockets and see Robinson walk off with a game that 
is really our property? Or are we to take our hands 
out of our pockets, with the fingers closed, and jingle 
some coins into the collection box? 

“ I ’m not a baseball enthusiast, as I ’ve acknowledged, 
but I am an Erskine enthusiast, fellows. Perkins says 
we ought to beat Robinson at baseball. I say let ’s do 
it ! I say let ’s beat Robinson at everything. If anybody 
will start a parchesi club I’ll go along and stand by 
and yell while they down the Robinson parchesi club. 

234 


ANTHONY RAISED MONEY 

That ’s what Providence made Robinson for — to be 
beaten. And we started in and beat her. And we’ve 
been beating her ever since — when she has n’t beaten 
us. 

“I’ve done a whole lot of talking here this evening, 
and I guess you’re all tired of it.” (There was loud 
and continued dissent at this point, interspersed with 
cries of “Good old Tidball!”) “But I promised to 
talk, and I like to give good measure. But the time for 
talking is about up. Mr. Hanson has something to say 
to you, and as he knows what he is going to talk about, 
whereas I don’t know what I’m talking about, I 
guess I ’d better stop and give him a show. But before 
I stop I want to point out a self-evident fact, fellows. 
You can’t win from Robinson without a baseball team, 
and you can’t have a baseball team unless you dig 
down in your pockets and pay up. Manager Patterson 
says the Baseball Association needs the sum of six 
hundred dollars. Well, let’s give it to ’em. Any fel- 
low here to-night, who thinks a victory over Robinson 
is n’t worth six hundred dollars is invited to stand up 
and walk out; we’ll unlock the door for him. Six 
hundred dollars means only about one dollar for each 
fellow. I am requested to state that after Mr. Hanson 
has spoken his piece a few of the best-looking men 
among us will pass through the audience with small 
cards upon which every man is asked to write his name 
and the amount he is willing to contribute to secure a 
victory over Robinson that will make last year’s score 
look like an infinitesimal fraction. If someone will 
go through the motions, I ’d like to propose three long 
23 5 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Erskines, three times three and three long Erskines 
for the nine.’’ 

Anthony bowed and sat down. The senior class 
president sprang to his feet, and the next moment the 
hall was thunderous with the mighty cheers that fol- 
lowed his “One, two, three!” Then came calls of 
“Tidball! Tidball!” and again the slogan was taken 
up. It was fully five minutes ere the head coach arose. 
And when he in turn stood at the platform’s edge the 
cheers began once more, for enthusiasm reigned at last. 

Hanson realized that further speechmaking was idle 
and confined his remarks to an indorsement of what 
Anthony had said. The distribution of blank slips of 
paper had already begun and his audience paid but 
little attention to his words, although it applauded 
good-naturedly. When he had ended, promising on 
behalf of the team, and in return for the support of 
the college, the best efforts of players and coaches, 
confusion reigned supreme. Pencils and fountain pens 
were passed hither and thither, jokes were bandied, 
songs were sung, and the tumult increased with the 
pushing aside of chairs and the scraping of feet as the 
meeting began to break up. But, though some left as 
soon as they had filled out their pledges, the greater 
number flocked into noisy groups and awaited the an- 
nouncement of the result. 

At length, Professor Nast accepted the slip of paper 
handed him by Patterson and advanced to the edge of 
the platform. There, he raised a hand for attention, 
and at the same time glanced at the figures. An ex- 
pression of incredulity overspread his face, and he 
236 


ANTHONY RAISED MONEY 

turned an inquiring look upon the manager. The 
latter smiled and nodded, as though to dispel the pro- 
fessor’s doubts. The hubbub died away, and the pro- 
fessor faced the meeting again. 

“I am asked,” he said, “to announce the result of 
the — ah — subscription. Where everyone has re- 
sponded so promptly and so heartily to the appeal in 
behalf of the Association, it would be, perhaps, unfair 
to give the names of any who have been exceptionally 
generous. But without doing so it remains a pleasant 
— ah — privilege to state that among the subscrip- 
tions there is one of fifty dollars — ” 

Loud applause greeted this announcement, and fel- 
lows of notoriously empty pocketbooks were accused 
by their friends of being the unnamed benefactor, and 
invariably acknowledged the impeachment with pro- 
fuse expressions of modesty. 

“Three of twenty-five dollars,” continued the pro- 
fessor, “six of ten dollars, seventeen of five dollars, 
and many of two dollars and over. The total subscrip- 
tion, strange as it may seem, reached the sum of five 
hundred and ninety-nine dollars, one dollar less than 
the amount asked for!” 

There was a moment of silent surprise. Then, from 
somewhere at the left of the room, a voice cried: 
“Here you are, then!” and something went spinning 
through the air. The head coach leaped forward, 
caught it deftly, and held it aloft. It was a shining 
silver dollar. 

“Thank you,” he said. 


THE RECHRISTENING OF 
PHOEBE 

By Samuel Scoville , Jr . 

P HCEBE, whose real name was James William 
Francis Field, 3d, was a “grind,” which, in Yale 
parlance, signifies one who regards marks more than 
muscle and sometimes even more than manliness. 
In appearance the third James William was slim, tall, 
rosy-cheeked, wore eyeglasses, and had a prim and 
precise way of talking, all of which personal char- 
acteristics were to his appreciative classmates crystal- 
lized into the name of “Phoebe.” Everywhere he was 
met by that hated title. Even late-at-night collegians 
returning homeward at unseemly hours and noting 
the light of the midnight oil shining from his window 
scrupled not to shout in unison, “O! Phoebe Field, 
stick your head out!” 

If so be that James weakly complied with this simple 
request, they would immediately roar in delighted 
chorus : — 

“Stick it in again — Phoebe dear!” 

The crisis finally came at the Junior Prom when big, 
careless Billy Reeves, in a voice that carried clear 
across the armory, introduced him to a chaperone and 
three girls as “ Mr. Field, commonly known as 4 Phoebe.’ ” 
From that moment James solemnly resolved to win 
238 


THE RECHRISTENING OF PHCEBE 

for himself a worthier title than that mocking, mincing 
girl name; and since in the college world all things are 
possible to an athlete, an athlete he decided to become, 
despite his lanky figure and lack of training. As a 
near-sighted novice, who weighs but one hundred and 
thirty-five pounds in his clothes, cannot reasonably 
hope to win a place on the crew, the eleven, or the nine, 
Phoebe was compelled to turn to the athletic team as a 
last resource. The next question, as to which one of 
the thirteen events he should look to for name and 
fame, was decided for him by a chance remark of the 
professor of hygiene and anthropometries. 

This personage was a compulsory institution pre- 
scribed by an all-wise faculty to measure each student 
at stated intervals and record all muscular increase; 
and as Phoebe never had any muscular increases to 
record, the unoffending professor had become his pet 
aversion. Accordingly, when one evening in February 
James William was forced shiveringly to undergo 
certain junior physical measurements, he was not in a 
mood especially receptive for advice. The talented 
specialist in anthropometries hopped gayly around his 
unclothed victim, armed with a pencil and an abnor- 
mally cold steel tape, chirping out uncalled-for observa- 
tions the while. 

“Legs too long and too small, ,, he observed, to 
Phoebe’s unbounded disgust, noting mystic hieroglyph- 
ics the while on a chart that was criss-crossed every- 
where with red and black lines. 

“If you should ever take up running,” he continued 
patronizingly, wrapping the icy tape around James’s 
239 


THE BOOK OF HUMOK 


shrinking shoulders, “try the distances. The quarter 
mile or the dashes require more muscle than you ’ll 
ever have.” 

From that moment the quarter mile was Phoebe’s 
chosen event, and the very next day the leader of the 
short-distance candidates was electrified, when he 
gathered his squad together in the gymnasium, to find 
among them James William Francis Field, 3d, clothed 
in a new running suit, white tennis shoes, and an air 
of unswerving resolve. 

“It was a frightful shock to one so highly strung as 
my fair young self,” he explained to his appreciative 
classmates at his eating club that night, “to find good 
old Phoebe Field in my squad to-day, all togged out 
in new jeans, gold-rimmed goggles, and handsome legs 
about the size of matches.” 

“‘Doctor prescribe exercise?’ says I. ‘No,’ says 
he, ‘I ’m going to try for the team.’” 

Here the narrator was cut short by a roar of laughter. 

“And he may be a surprise-party yet,” continued 
the first speaker. “He has good brains in that near- 
sighted noddle of his, and what ’s more, for a man 
that’s never run, he has quite a touch of speed.” 

As the days passed by, this prophecy bade fair to be 
realized, for Phoebe trained for the quarter mile with 
the same dogged perseverance that had made him 
noted as a scholar, until gradually the narrow chest 
broadened and the pipe-stem legs began to acquire 
strength and speed. 

Finally there came an evening when the quarter- 
mile candidates were weeded out by a series of time 
240 


THE RECHRISTENING OF PHOEBE 

trials on the indoor track in the gymnasium. A group 
of Phoebe’s classmates were present, and, when his 
trial came, they greeted him with shouts of unre- 
strained joy. 

“Hurroo for Phoebe Field the flyer!” they observed 
loudly.' But their scoffs were silenced when the pistol 
cracked and Phoebe flashed off around the canvas- 
covered track, negotiating the “turns” and speeding 
the straightaways like a veteran. Lap after lap he 
covered unflaggingly, and gamely ran himself to a 
standstill on the last one, and when his time was an- 
nounced as second best of all the new candidates, his 
athletic aspirations ceased from that moment to be a 
joke. 

“He ’s the deceivenest thing on the squad,” Mike, 
the grizzled old trainer, confided to sundry of the 
athletic alumni who dropped in at Eastertime to take 
a look at the candidates. “To look at him, you 
would n’t think he could run fast enough to keep 
warm, but he ’s a goer for fair, and he uses his head in 
racing more than any man I ’ve got.” 

When the squad finally began work on the cinder 
path, Phoebe improved wonderfully. In the spring 
games he finished second to the university champion. 
Three weeks later, at the Yale-Harvard meet, he lost 
a desperate race to the Harvard record holder at the 
very tape, and became Yale’s main hope in the quarter 
mile at the intercollegiate games that were looming 
up a short fortnight away. Never had an intercollegiate 
meeting meant so much to Yale. Ten years before, 
alumni from all the colleges of the Intercollegiate 
241 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Association had donated a huge silver challenge cup, 
to be competed for annually and to become the perma- 
nent property of the college winning it the greatest 
number of times during the decade. Three times had 
Yale and Harvard held the coveted trophy, and three 
times other colleges had wrested it away from them, 
so that one more victory for either the crimson or 
the blue sent the cup to Cambridge or New Haven 
permanently. 

At daybreak on the morning of the intercollegiate 
meeting, Phoebe awoke suddenly in one of the great 
New York hotels, to which the team had been sent the 
evening before, with a sense as of an impending doom 
hanging over him. All that morning was one of fever- 
ish waiting for the fray, around the corridors of the 
hotel, confabs with the worried captain, advice from 
sundry old grads, who came back annually to follow 
the fortunes of the team, and above all a constant 
stream of characteristic encouragement, exhortation, 
and warning from old Mike. The morning passed some 
way or other, and at two o’clock Phoebe found himself 
standing in the training house at the Oval while a 
brawny rubber slapped great handfuls of cold alcohol 
all over his wiry frame. The fight was on, with the 
preliminary heats in the quarter-mile race the third 
event. 

The green field, encircled by grandstands, was 
thronged with spectators, thrilled with college cheers, 
and afloat with flags of all colors. The deep-throated 
Harvard slogan held its own against the shattering 
Greek cheer of Yale, while the pyrotechnic and alpha- 
242 


THE RECHRISTENING OF PHCEBE 

betical cries of the other colleges roared back and forth 
from section to section, until they all blended into one 
vast many-keyed tumult that made the blood of the 
competitors pound at their temples. 

Before Phoebe could realize his surroundings, he 
found himself out on the cinder path with a score or 
so of other runners, answering to the clerk of the course 
as that dignitary read off the list of competitors drawn 
for the first heat. A moment later he was on his marks 
with every muscle tense for the pistol. When the signal 
at last came, he found himself in a maddened huddle 
of runners at the first corner, where everyone seemed 
to be fighting for the pole, and, as he swerved out to 
clear the crowd, there was a sudden tearing pain in his 
left leg. Glancing down, he saw a thin red line, along 
which blood drops were oozing, extending fully six 
inches athwart the calf. The gash was little more than 
skin deep, however, and stung him to a speed which 
brought him nearer to the flying leaders with every 
stride, and by the time the van reached the home 
stretch, Phoebe had the heat well in hand, and, running 
well within himself, crossed the line second of the four 
men who were privileged to run in the final heat. Mike 
was waiting for him at the Yale quarters with a big 
fuzzy blanket. 

“Good work, me boy!” he shouted, wrapping him 
up like a chrysalis in the blanket. “Spiked you, too, 
the clumsy ice wagons!” he exclaimed wrathfully as 
the long gash caught his eye. Phoebe was then rubbed 
down again and the gash on his leg washed out with 
raw alcohol to keep it from stiffening, during which 
243 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


operation he smiled pleasantly, in accordance with 
training-house etiquette. 

“Now you lie there and sleep until you ’re called!” 
was Mike’s parting injunction as he hurried oft to 
attend to the Yale entries in the next event. 

For a while Phoebe lay watching the deft-handed 
rubbers and listening to the confused shouts and cheers 
outside. Then things began to waver before his eyes 
and of a sudden he knew nothing more. It seemed to 
him as if he had only closed his eyes for a moment, 
though in reality it had been nearly two hours, when he 
felt someone shaking his arm and looked up sleepily 
to see the captain of the team and Mike standing by 
him, both with the drawn look on their faces that comes 
from a long-continued strain. The captain, a brawny 
hammer-thrower, with the sweat of a hard-earned vic- 
tory in his event still wet on his satiny skin, spoke first. 

“Phoebe,” he said hoarsely, “Yale and Harvard lead. 
Harvard has 31 points and we have The whole 

thing turns on your event. Now, old man, don’t go 
back on us — if you win, you can have anything you 
want!” 

Phoebe was on his feet in a moment and began lacing 
on his spiked shoes with hands that trembled in spite 
of himself. Mike said not a word, but laid a huge arm 
across the slim back and looked into the runner’s face 
with eyes that fairly glowed. 

“I ’ll do it, Mike, if it ’s in me,” he muttered. And 
as Phoebe started for the door, he turned to the ham- 
mer-thrower. “ Cap’n, if I win, there ’ll be something 
that I want.” 


244 


THE RECHRISTENING OF PHCEBE 

“Anything, Phoebe, anything — only win this race!" 
howled the latter excitedly. “Now, boys, all sing!” 

From every side of the training house the athletes 
flocked. Some were white and sick from hard-run 
races, a few had won, many had lost, some were dressed, 
others still dripping with alcohol as they left the hands 
of the rubbers — but they all sang, while the captain 
led them, using a sixteen-pound hammer and the top 
of a rubbing table to punctuate the specially emphatic 
passages, and the chorus “Here *s to good old Yale!” 
rang out even to the grandstands, and was greeted by 
the Yale sections with roars of renewed cheering. At 
the end of the verse there was a tremendous cheer for 
“Phoebe Field!” and the echoes had scarcely died away 
before an official with a flowing badge thrust his head 
into the open door, shouting: — 

“Last call for the quarter mile!” 

With his hated nickname still sounding in his ears, 
Phoebe took his place among the twelve runners who 
had won places in the finals and who represented the 
best quarter-milers among the American colleges. 

Fate was kinder to him than in the preliminary heat, 
and he drew a position second from the pole. The 
coveted inside position went to a Princeton crack, while 
three places away were two men with the slanting crim- 
son bar, the emblem of Harvard, across their jersey 
fronts, and next to them a University of California 
runner, who was rated high on the Pacific Coast. The 
rest of the entries were either second-rate performers 
or novices of whose ability but little was known. 

As the competitors took their places, the audience, 
24 5 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

maddened by the neck-and-neck fight throughout 
between Harvard and Yale, dropped all personal 
preferences and ten thousand voices shouted mightily 
for one university or the other, until Phoebe’s tense 
nerves quivered like violin strings. He looked sidelong 
down the line at his Harvard opponents standing side 
by side, and, as he noted that they were both chewing 
gum and gazing at the audience with ostentatious 
unconcern, an unreasoning rage possessed his mind at 
the sight of this irritating complacency, and he inwardly 
vowed to ruffle their Harvard calm on the home stretch. 

“On your marks!” shouted the starter through the 
din of cheers, and Phoebe set his teeth and resolved to 
run that race with every bit of brain and muscle and 
nerve that he possessed. 

“Get set!” and the whole line crouched to spring. 

A sudden silence fell upon the great audience, broken 
sharply by the report of the pistol. Phoebe broke off 
his marks with the flash, and, sprinting, snatched the 
pole away from the startled Princeton runner, and going 
at full speed held his lead handily around the dangerous 
first corner and swung into the back stretch a good two 
yards ahead of the field. Here the Californian, who 
had evidently planned to cut out the pace the entire 
distance, passed him and spurted on ahead at a gait 
which Phoebe’s critical eye told him was too fast to 
last long. Somewhere in the four hundred and forty 
yards of a quarter mile the best of runners must slacken 
a little, for three hundred yards is about the limit of 
distance that can be covered at a sprinting pace. 

Accordingly, in the next hundred yards, Phoebe 
246 


THE RECHRISTENING OF PHCEBE 

slowed his gait until, as the field approached the second 
corner, he was back in the ruck, with Harvard, Prince- 
ton, and California all ahead. At the corner the tre- 
mendous pace began to tell on the representative of 
the Pacific Coast and he staggered slightly and ran 
wide. Instantly one of the Harvard men flashed in 
between him and the pole and rounded into the home 
stretch with no one beside him. 

On the moment the whole grandstand seemed 
aflame with crimson banners. “Harvard!” “Har- 
vard!” “Harvard!” the roar ran up and down the field. 
Ten yards away, still on the curve, came Phoebe, trav- 
eling close and easily so as not to cover any unneces- 
sary distance. California was in trouble and ran lurch- 
ingly, while, five yards back of the leader, Princeton 
and the other Harvard entry were side by side, with the 
latter drawing away slightly. A scant seventy-five 
yards from the leader was the group of grave-faced 
judges and timekeepers and the thin red finish line 
breast high across the track. Riotous Harvard alumni 
rushed out on the field from the grandstands, and 
threw up their hats, and patted each other on the back 
in paroxysms of delirious joy, for their university 
seemed sure of first, and probably second place. 

Suddenly there came a fierce yell from the Yale side, 
and a thousand drooping blue banners waved franti- 
cally. As he turned into the home stretch, Phoebe had 
seen on the instant that it was impossible to keep near 
the pole and pass the three leaders in time, and imme- 
diately crossed to the outside of the track and was now 
coming like a whirlwind. With head back and eyes 
247 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

flashing behind his spectacles, he ran like a demon, 
drawing on all the speed he had saved for the finish. 

Then, in a moment he dashed into second place, 
passing the astonished pair before they had even sus- 
pected his nearness. The leader heard the rapid pat, 
pat, of his flying feet and struggled desperately to 
make one final spurt, but his legs tottered as he tried 
to lengthen his stride, yet the goal was less than ten 
yards away and the Yale runner still a yard or two 
back. Clinching his corks until the veins of his wrists 
stood out in ridges, Phoebe made a final effort and drew 
up to the leader’s shoulder. Scarcely a stride from the 
tape, the latter glanced back. The movement, trifling 
as it seemed, slowed his stride by ever so tiny a fraction 
of a second, and, in that pin-point of time, Phoebe threw 
himself forward like a diver and, even while his oppo- 
nent’s foot was in midair on the last stride, the out- 
stretched arms of the Yale runner broke the tape and 
he fell headlong on the sharp cinders, breathless and 
exhausted, but — a winner! 

That night the Yale team and every available Yale 
man that could be found, professors, undergraduates, 
alumni, and sub-freshmen, sat down to a love feast in 
one of New York’s largest dining rooms with the 
hardly won cup in the center of the table. When the 
last course was reached and scores of enthusiasts, their 
voices reduced to husky whispers by reason of much 
cheering, had shaken Phoebe’s hand, the captain arose 
solemnly. 

“Gentlemen,” he began, “just before the hero of 
this, the grandest day that America has ever seen” 
248 


THE RECHRISTENING OF PHCEBE 


(loud cheers) “ went out to cover himself with glory, he 
remarked to me that if he won, he would have a request 
to make, and in the name of the university I promised 
him anything he could ask, from the right hand of 
fellowship to an honorary degree. Now, in behalf of 
Yale, I call on him to name his wish — and we ’ll do 
the rest.” 

For fully ten minutes the feelings inspired by this 
oratorical effort were expressed in assorted cheers, at 
the end of which time Phoebe was borne around the 
room on the shoulders of as many as could get to him 
and finally deposited on the banquet table. There, 
with one foot dangerously close to a platter of chicken 
salad, he paused a moment, and then, regarding the 
jubilant crowd benignly through his spectacles, re- 
marked simply: — 

“I ’d like to have you fellows call me Jim.” 

And with a prodigious, phenomenal, and altogether 
unsurpassable “Rah! rah! rah! rah! rah! rah! rah! 
rah! rah! Jim Field!” “Phoebe” passed away forever. 


THE VISITING GENTLEMAN 
AT SCHOOL 

By George Madden Martin 

T HERE was head and foot in the Second Reader. 

Emmy Lou heard it whispered the day of her 
entrance into the Second Reader room. 

Once, head and foot had meant Aunt Cordelia above 
the coffee tray and Uncle Charlie below the carving 
knife. But at school head and foot meant little girls 
bobbing up and down, descending and ascending the 
scale of excellency. 

There were no little boys. At the Second Reader the 
currents of the sexes divided, and little boys were 
swept out of sight. One mentioned little boys now 
in undertones. 

But head and foot meant something beside little 
girls bobbing out of their places on the bench to take 
a neighbor’s place. Head and foot meant tears — 
that is, when the bobbing was downward and not up. 
However, if one bobbed down to-day, there was the 
chance of bobbing up to-morrow — that is, with all but 
Emmy Lou and a little girl answering to the call of 
Kitty McKoeghany. 

Step by step Kitty went up, and having reached the 
top, Kitty stayed there. 

And step by step Emmy Lou, from her original, 
250 


THE VISITING GENTLEMAN AT SCHOOL 

alphabetically determined position beside Kitty, went 
down, and then, only because farther descent was im- 
possible, Emmy Lou stayed there. But since the foot 
was nearest the platform, Emmy Lou took that com- 
fort out of the situation, for the teacher sat on the 
platform, and Emmy Lou loved the teacher. 

The Second Reader teacher was the lady, the nice 
lady, the pretty lady with white hair, who patted little 
girls on the cheek as she passed them in the hall. On 
the first day of school, the name of Emily Louise 
MacLauren had been called. Emmy Lou stood up. She 
looked at the teacher. She wondered if the teacher 
remembered. Emmy Lou was chubby and round and 
much in earnest. And the lady, the pretty lady, 
looking down at her, smiled. Then Emmy Lou knew 
that the lady had not forgotten. And Emmy Lou sat 
down. And she loved the teacher, and she loved the 
Second Reader. Emmy Lou had not heard the teach- 
er’s name. But could her grateful little heart have 
resolved its feelings into words, “Dear Teacher” must 
ever after have been the lady’s name. And so, as if 
impelled by her own chubby weight and some head- 
and-foot force of gravity, though Emmy Lou descended 
steadily to the foot of the Second Reader class, there 
were compensations. The foot was in the shadow of 
the platform and within the range of Dear Teacher’s 
smile. 

Besides, there was Hattie. 

Emmy Lou sat with Hattie. They sat at a front 
desk. Hattie had plaits; small affairs, perhaps, but 
tied with ribbons behind each ear. And the part bi- 
251 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


secting Hattie’s little head from nape to crown was 
exact and true. Emmy Lou admired plaits. And she 
admired the little pink sprigs on Hattie’s dress. 

After Hattie and Emmy Lou had sat together a 
whole day, Hattie took Emmy Lou aside as they were 
going home, and whispered to her. 

“Who’s your mos’ nintimate friend?” was what 
Emmy Lou understood her to whisper. 

Emmy Lou had no idea what “a nintimate” friend 
might be. She did not know what to do. 

“Have n’t you got one?” demanded Hattie. 

Emmy Lou shook her head. 

Hattie put her lips close to Emmy Lou’s ear. 

“Let ’s us be nintimate friends,” said Hattie. 

Though small in knowledge, Emmy Lou was large 
in faith. She confessed herself as glad to be “ a ninti- 
mate” friend. 

When Emmy Lou found that to be “a nintimate” 
friend meant to walk about the yard with Hattie’s arm 
about her, she was glad indeed to be one. Hitherto, at 
recess, Emmy Lou had known the bitterness of the 
outcast and the pariah, and had stood around, princi- 
pally in corners, to avoid being swept off her little feet 
by the big girls at play, and had gazed upon a paired- 
off and sufficient-unto-itself world. 

Hattie seemed to know everything. In all the glory 
of its newness Emmy Lou brought her Second Reader 
to school. Hattie was scandalized. She showed her 
Reader soberly incased in a calico cover. 

Emmy Lou grew hot. She hid her Reader hastily. 
Somehow she felt that she had been immodest. The 
252 


THE VISITING GENTLEMAN AT SCHOOL 


next day Emmy Lou’s Reader came to school discreetly 
swathed in calico. 

Hardly had the Second Reader begun, when one 
Friday the music man came. And after that he came 
every Friday and stayed an hour. 

He was a tall, thin man, and he had a point of beard 
on his chin that made him look taller. He wore a blue 
cape, which he tossed on a chair. And he carried a 
violin. His name was Mr. Cato. He drew five lines 
on the blackboard, and made eight dots that looked as 
though they were going upstairs on the lines. Then 
he rapped on his violin with his bow r , and the class sat 
up straight. 

“This,” said Mr. Cato, “is A,” and he pointed to a 
dot. Then he looked at Emmy Lou. Unfortunately 
Emmy Lou sat at a front desk. 

“Now, what is it?” said Mr. Cato. 

“A,” said Emmy Lou obediently. She wondered. 
But she had met A in so many guises of print and 
script that she accepted any statement concerning A. 
And now a dot was A. 

“And this,” said Mr. Cato “is B, and this is C, and 
this D, and E, F, G, which brings us naturally to A 
again,” and Mr. Cato with his bow went up the stair- 
way punctuated with dots. 

Emmy Lou wondered why G brought one naturally 
to A again. 

But Mr. Cato was tapping up the dotted stairway 
with his bow. “Now what are they? ” asked Mr. Cato. 

“Dots,” said Emmy Lou, forgetting. 

Mr. Cato got red in the face and rapped angrily. 

253 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“A,” said Emmy Lou, hastily, “B, C, D, E, F, G, 
H,” and was going hurriedly on when Hattie, with a 
surreptitious jerk, stopped her. 

“That is better,” said Mr. Cato, “A, B, C, D, E, F, 
G, A — exactly — but we are not going to call them 
A, B, C, D, E, F, G, A ” — Mr. Cato paused impres- 
sively, his bow poised, and looked at Emmy Lou — 
“we are going to call them” — and Mr. Cato touched a 
dot — “do” — his bow went up the punctuated stair- 
way — “re, mi, fa, sol, la, si. Now what is this?” 
The bow pointed itself to Emmy Lou, then described a 
curve, bringing it again to a dot. 

“A,” said Emmy Lou. 

The bow rapped angrily on the board, and Mr. Cato 
glared. 

“Do,” said Mr. Cato, “do — always do — not A, 
nor B, nor C, never A, nor B, nor C, again — do, do,” 
the bow rapping angrily the while. 

“Dough,” said Emmy Lou, swallowing miserably. 

Mr. Cato was mollified. “Forget now it was ever 
A; A is do here. Always in the future remember the 
first letter in the scale is do. Whenever you meet it 
placed like this, A is do, A is do.” 

Emmy Lou resolved she would never forget. A is 
dough. How or why or wherefore did not matter. The 
point was, A is dough. But Emmy Lou was glad when 
the music man went. And then came spelling, when 
there was always much bobbing up and down and 
changing of places and tears. This time the rest might 
forget, but Emmy Lou would not. It came her turn. 

She stood up. Her word was Adam. And A was 
254 


THE VISITING GENTLEMAN AT SCHOOL 

dough. Emmy Lou went slowly to get it right. 
“Dough-d-dough-m, Adam,” said Emmy Lou. 

They laughed. But Dear Teacher did not laugh. 
The recess bell rang. And Dear Teacher, holding 
Emmy Lou’s hand, sent them all out. Everyone must 
go. Desks and slates to be scrubbed, mattered not. 
Everyone must go. Then Dear Teacher lifted Emmy 
Lou to her lap. And when she was sure they were every- 
one gone, Emmy Lou cried. And after a while Dear 
Teacher explained about A and do, so that Emmy Lou 
understood. And then Dear Teacher said, “You may 
come in.” And the crack of the door widened, and in 
came Hattie. Emmy Lou was glad she was “a ninti- 
mate ” friend. Hattie had not laughed. 

But that day the carriage which took Dear Teacher 
to and from her home outside of town — the carriage 
with a white, woolly dog on the seat by the little 
colored-boy driver and the spotted dog running behind 
— stopped at Emmy Lou’s gate. And Dear Teacher, 
smiling at Emmy Lou just arriving with her school bag, 
went in, too, and rang the bell. 

Then Dear Teacher and Aunt Cordelia and Aunt 
Katie and Aunt Louise sat in the parlor and talked. 

And when Dear Teacher left, all the aunties went 
out to the gate with her, and Uncle Charlie, just leaving, 
put her into the carriage and stood with his hat lifted 
until she was quite gone. 

“At her age — ” said Aunt Cordelia. 

“To have to teach — ” said Aunt Katie. 

“How beautiful she must have been — ” said Aunt 
Louise. 


255 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“Is — ” said Uncle Charlie. 

“But she has the little grandchild,” said Aunt 
Cordelia; “she is keeping the home for him. She is 
happy.” And Aunt Cordelia took Emmy Lou’s hand. 

That very afternoon Aunt Louise began to help 
Emmy Lou with her lessons, and Aunt Cordelia went 
around and asked Hattie’s mother to let Hattie come 
and get her lessons with Emmy Lou. 

And at school Dear Teacher, walking up and down 
the aisles, would stop, and her fingers would close over 
and guide the laboring digits of Emmy Lou, striving to 
copy within certain ruled lines upon her slate the 
writing on the blackboard : — 

The pen is the tongue of the mind. 

Emmy Lou began to learn. As weeks went by, now 
and then Emmy Lou bobbed up a place, although, 
sooner or later, she slipped back. She was not always 
at the foot. 

But no one, not even Dear Teacher, who understood 
so much, realized one thing. The day after a lesson, 
Emmy Lou knew it. On the day it was recited, Emmy 
Lou had lacked sufficient time to grasp it. 

With ten words in the spelling lesson, Emmy Lou 
listened, letter by letter, to those ten droned out five 
times down the line, then twice again around the class 
of fifty. Then Emmy Lou, having already labored 
faithfully over it, knew her spelling lesson. 

And at home, it was Emmy Lou’s joy to gather her 
doll children in line, and giving out past lessons, recite 
them in turn for her children. And so did Emmy Lou 
256 


THE VISITING GENTLEMAN AT SCHOOL 

know by heart her Second Reader as far as she had 
gone; she often gave the lesson with her book upside 
down. And an old and battered doll, dearest to Emmy 
Lou’s heart, was always head, and Hattie, the newest 
doll, was next. Even the Emmy Lous must square with 
Fate somehow. 

Along in the year a new feature was introduced in 
the Second Reader. The Second Reader was to have a 
medal. Dear Teacher did not seem enthusiastic. She 
seemed to dread tears. But it was decreed that the 
school was to use medals. 

At recess Emmy Lou asked Hattie what a medal 
was. 

The big Fourth and Fifth Reader girls were playing 
games from which the little girls were excluded, for 
the school was large and the yard was small. At one 
time it had seemed to Emmy Lou that the odium, the 
obloquy, the reproach of being a little girl was more 
than she could bear, but she would not change places 
with anyone, now she was “ a nintimate ” friend. 

Emmy Lou asked Hattie what it was — this medal. 

Hattie explained. Hattie knew everything. A 
medal was — well — a medal. It hung on a blue 
ribbon. Each little girl brought her own blue ribbon. 
You wore it for a week — this medal. 

That afternoon Emmy Lou went around the corner 
to Mrs. Heinz’s little fancy store. Her chin just came 
to Mrs. Heinz’s counter. But she knew what she 
wanted — a yard of blue ribbon. 

She showed it to Hattie the next day, folded in its 
paper, and slipped for safety beneath the long criss- 
257 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

cross stitches which held the calico cover of her Second 
Reader. 

Then Hattie explained. One had to stay head a whole 
week to get the medal. 

Emmy Lou’s heart was heavy — the more that she 
had now seen the medal. It was a silver medal that 
said “Merit.” It was around Kitty McKoeghany’s 
neck. 

And Kitty tossed her head. And when, at recess, 
she ran, the medal swung to and fro on its ribbon. And 
the big girls all stopped Kitty to look at the medal. 

There was a condition attached to the gaining of the 
medal. Upon receiving it one had to go foot. But that 
mattered little to Kitty McKoeghany. Kitty climbed 
right up again. 

And Emmy Lou peeped surreptitiously at the blue 
ribbon in her Second Reader. And at home she placed 
her dolls in line and spelt the back lessons faithfully, 
with comfort in her knowledge of them. And the old 
battered doll, dear to her heart, wore oftenest a medal 
of shining tinfoil. For even Hattie, in one of Kitty’s 
off weeks, had won the medal. 

It was late in the year when a rumor ran around the 
Second Reader room. The trustees were coming that 
day to visit the school. 

Emmy Lou wondered what trustees were. She 
asked Hattie. Hattie explained. “They are men, in 
black clothes. You dare n’t move in your seat. They ’re 
something like ministers.” Hattie knew everything. 

“Will they come here, in our room?” asked Emmy 
Lou. It was terrible to be at the front desk. Emmy 
258 


THE VISITING GENTLEMAN AT SCHOOL 

Lou remembered the music man. He still pointed his 
bow at her on Fridays. 

“Of course,” said Hattie; “comp’ny always comes 
to our room.” 

Which was true, for Dear Teacher’s room was dif- 
ferent. Dear Teacher’s room seemed always ready, 
and the principal brought company to it accordingly. 

It was after recess they came — the principal, the 
trustee (there was just one trustee), and a visiting 
gentleman. 

There was a hush as they filed in. Hattie was right. 
It was like ministers. The principal was in black, with 
a white tie. He always was. And the trustee was in 
black. He rubbed his hands and bowed to the Second 
Reader class, sitting very straight and awed. And 
the visiting gentleman was in black, with a shiny 
black hat. 

The trustee was a big man, and his face was red, 
and when urged by the principal to address the Second 
Reader class, his face grew redder. 

The trustee waved his hand toward the visiting 
gentleman. “ Mr. Hammel, children, the Hon. Samuel 
S. Hammel, a citizen with whose name you are all, I 
am sure, familiar.” And then the trustee, mopping 
his face, got behind the visiting gentleman and the 
principal. 

The visiting gentleman stood forth. He was a short, 
little man — a little, round man, whose feet were so 
far back beneath a preponderating circumference of 
waist line, that he looked like nothing so much as one 
of Uncle Charlie’s pouter pigeons. 

259 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

He was a smiling-and-bowing little man, and he held 
out his fat hand playfully, and in it was a shining white 
box. 

Dear Teacher seemed taller and very far off. She 
looked as she did the day she told the class they were 
to have a medal. Emmy Lou watched Dear Teacher 
anxiously. Something told her Dear Teacher was 
troubled. 

The visiting gentleman began to speak. He called 
the Second Reader class “dear children,” and “mothers 
of a coming generation,” and “molders of the future 
welfare.” 

The Second Reader class sat very still. There 
seemed to be something paralyzing to their infant 
faculties, mental and physical, in learning they were 
“mothers” and “molders.” But Emmy Lou breathed 
freer to have it applied impartially and not to the front 
seat. 

Their “country, the pillars of state, everything,” it 
seemed, depended on the way these mothers learned 
their second readers. “As mothers and molders, they 
must learn now in youth to read, to number, to 
spell — exactly — to spell!” And the visiting gentle- 
man nodded meaningly, tapped the white box, and 
looked smilingly about. The mothers moved uneasily. 
The smile they avoided. But they wondered what was 
in the box. 

The visiting gentleman lifted the lid and displayed a 
glittering, shining something on a bed of pink cotton. 

Then, as if struck by a happy thought, he turned to 
the blackboard. He looked about for chalk. The 
260 


THE VISITING GENTLEMAN AT SCHOOL 

principal supplied him. Fashioned by his fat, white 
hand, these words sprawled themselves upon the black- 
board : — 

The best speller in this room is to recieve this medal 

There was silence. Then the Second Reader class 
moved. It breathed a long breath. 

A whisper went around the room while Dear Teacher 
and the gentleman were conferring. Rumor said Kitty 
McKoeghany started it. Certainly Kitty, in her desk 
across the aisle from Hattie, in the sight of all, tossed 
her black head knowingly. 

The whisper concerned the visiting gentleman. “He 
is running for trustee,” said the whisper. 

Emmy Lou wondered. Hattie seemed to under- 
stand. “He puts his name up on tree-boxes and 
fences,” she whispered to Emmy Lou, “and that’s 
running for trustee.” 

The rumor was succeeded by another. 

“He ’s running against the trustee that ’s not here 
to-day.” 

No wonder Kitty McKoeghany was head. The 
extent of Kitty’s knowledge was boundless. 

The third confidence was freighted with strange im- 
port. It came straight from Kitty to Hattie, who told 
it to Emmy Lou. 

“When he ’s trustee, he means the school board 
shall take his pork house for the new school.” 

Even Emmy Lou knew the pork house which had 
built itself unpleasantly near the neighborhood. 

Just then the Second Reader class was summoned to 
261 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

the bench. As the line took its place, a hush fell. 
Emmy Lou, at its foot, looked up its length and won- 
dered how it would seem to be Kitty McKoeghany at 
the head. 

The three gentlemen were looking at Kitty, too. 
Kitty tossed her head. Kitty was used to being looked 
at because of being head. 

The low words of the gentleman reached the foot of 
the line. “The head one, that ’s McKoeghany’s little 
girl.” It was the trustee telling the visiting gentleman. 
Emmy Lou did not wonder that Kitty was being 
pointed out. Kitty was head. But Emmy Lou did 
not know that it was because Kitty was Mr. Michael 
McKoeghany’s little girl that she was being pointed 
out as well as because she was head, for Mr. Michael 
McKoeghany was the political boss of a district known 
as Limerick, and by the vote of Limerick a man ru nnin g 
for office could stand or fall. 

Now there were many things unknown to Emmy Lou, 
about which Kitty, being the little girl of Mr. Michael 
McKoeghany, could have enlightened her. 

Kitty could have told her that the yard of the absent 
trustee ran back to the pork house. Also that the 
trustee present was part owner of that offending 
building. And further that Emmy Lou’s Uncle Charlie, 
leading an irate neighborhood to battle, had compelled 
the withdrawal of the obnoxious business. 

But to Emmy Lou only one thing was clear. Kitty 
was being pointed out by the principal and the trustee 
to the visiting gentleman because she was head. 

Dear Teacher took the book. She stood on the plat- 
262 


THE VISITING GENTLEMAN AT SCHOOL 

form apart from the gentlemen and gave out the words 
distinctly but very quietly. 

Emmy Lou felt that Dear Teacher was troubled. 
Emmy Lou thought it was because Dear Teacher was 
afraid the poor spellers were going to miss. She made 
up her mind that she would not miss. 

Dear Teacher began with the words on the first page 
and went forward. Emmy Lou could tell the next word 
to come each time, for she knew her Second Reader by 
heart as far as the class had gone. 

She stood up when her time came and spelled her 
word. Her word was “ wrong.” She spelled it right. 

Dear Teacher looked pleased. There was a time 
when Emmy Lou had been given to leaving off the 
introductory “w” as superfluous. 

On the next round a little girl above Emmy Lou 
missed on “enough.” To her phonetic understanding, 
a u and two/'s were equivalent to an ough. 

Emmy Lou spelled it right and went up one. The 
little girl went to her seat. She was no longer in the 
race. She was in tears. 

Presently a little girl far up the line arose to spell. 

“Right, to do right,” said Dear Teacher. 

“ W-r-i-t-e, right,” said the little girl promptly. 

“R-i-t-e, right,” said the next little girl. 

The third stood up with triumph preassured. In 
spelling, the complicated is the surest, reasoned this 
little girl. 

“W-r-i-g-h-t, right,” spelled the certain little girl; 
then burst into tears. 

The mothers of the future grew demoralized. The 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


pillars of state of English orthography at least seemed 
destined to totter. The spelling grew wild. 

“R-i-t, right.” 

“W-r-i-t, right.” 

Then in the desperation of sheer hopelessness came 
“ w-r-i-t-e, right,” again. 

There were tears all along the line. At their wits’ 
end, the mothers, dissolving as they rose in turn, shook 
their heads hopelessly. 

Emmy Lou stood up. She knew just where the word 
was in a column of three on page 14. She could see it. 
She looked up at Dear Teacher, quiet and pale, on the 
platform. 

“R,” said Emmy Lou, steadily, “i-g-h-t, right.” 

A long line of weeping mothers went to their seats, 
and Emmy Lou moved up past the middle of the 
bench. 

The words were now more complicated. The nerves 
of the mothers had been shaken by this last strain. 
Little girls dropped out rapidly. The foot moved on 
up toward the head, until there came a pink spot on 
Dear Teacher’s either cheek. For some reason Dear 
Teacher’s head began to hold itself finely erect again. 

“Beaux,” said Dear Teacher. 

The little girl next the head stood up. She missed. 
She burst into audible weeping. Nerves were giving 
out along the line. It went wildly down. Emmy Lou 
was the last. Emmy Lou stood up. It was the first 
word of a column on page 22. Emmy Lou could see it. 
She looked at Dear Teacher. 

“B,” said Emmy Lou, “e-a-u-x, beaux.” 

264 


THE VISITING GENTLEMAN AT SCHOOL 

The intervening mothers had gone to their seats, and 
Kitty and Emmy Lou were left. 

Kitty spelled triumphantly. Emmy Lou spelled 
steadily. Even Dear Teacher’s voice showed a touch 
of the strain. 

She gave out half a dozen words. Then “receive,” 
said Dear Teacher. 

It was Kitty’s turn. Kitty stood up. Dear Teacher’s 
back was to the blackboard. The trustee and the 
visiting gentleman were also facing the class. Kitty’s 
eyes, as she stood up, were on the board. 

“ The best speller in this room is to recieve this medal” 

was the assurance on the board. 

Kitty tossed her little head. “R-e, re, c-i-e-v-e, 
ceive, receive,” spelled Kitty, her eyes on the black- 
board. 

“Wrong.” 

Emmy Lou stood up. It was the second word in a 
column on a picture page. Emmy Lou could see it. 
She looked at Dear Teacher. 

“R-e, re, c-e-i-v-e, ceive, receive,” said Emmy Lou. 

One person beside Kitty had noted the blackboard. 
Already the principal was passing an eraser across the 
words of the visiting gentleman. 

Dear Teacher’s cheeks were pink as Emmy Lou’s as 
she led Emmy Lou to receive the medal. And her head 
was finely erect. She held Emmy Lou’s hand through 
it all. 

The visiting gentleman’s manner was a little stony. 
It had quite lost its playfulness. He looked almost 
265 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

gloomily on the mother who had upheld the pillars of 
state and the future generally. 

It was a beautiful medal. It was a five-pointed star. 
It said “Reward of Merit.” 

The visiting gentleman lifted it from its bed of pink 
cotton. 

“You must get a ribbon for it,” said Dear Teacher. 
Emmy Lou slipped her hand from Dear Teacher’s. 
She went to the front desk. She got her Second Reader, 
and brought forth a folded packet from behind the 
crisscross stitches holding the cover. 

Then she came back. She put the paper into Dear 
Teacher’s hand. 

“There ’s a ribbon,” said Emmy Lou. 

They were at dinner when Emmy Lou got home. On 
a blue ribbon around her neck dangled a new medal. 
In her hand she carried a shiny box. 

Even Uncle Charlie felt there must be some mistake. 
Aunt Louise got her hat to hurry Emmy Lou right 
back to school. 

At the gate they met Dear Teacher’s carriage, taking 
Dear Teacher home. She stopped. 

Aunt Cordelia came out, and Aunt Katie, Uncle 
Charlie, just going, stopped to hear. 

“Spelling match! ” said Aunt Lotfise. 

“Not our Emmy Lou?” said Aunt Katie. 

“The precious baby,” said Aunt Cordelia. 
“Hammel,” said Uncle Charlie, “McKoeghany.” 
And Uncle Charlie smote his thigh. 


266 


THE NEW MONITOR 

By Myra Kelly 

S CHOOL had been for some months in progress when 
the footsteps of Yetta Aaronsohn were turned, by 
a long-suffering truant officer, in the direction of 
room 18. During her first few hours among its pic- 
tures, plants, and children, she sadly realized the great 
and many barriers which separated her from Eva 
Gonorowsky, Morris Mogilewsky, Patrick Brennan, 
and other favored spirits who basked in the sunshine 
of Teacher’s regard. For, with a face too white, hair 
too straight, dresses too short, and legs too long one 
runs a poor chance in rivalry with more blessed and 
bedizened children. 

Miss Bailey had already appointed her monitors, 
organized her kingdom, and was so hedged about with 
servitors and assistants that her wishes were acted 
upon before a stranger could surmise them, and her 
Cabinet, from the Leader of the Line to the Monitor 
of the Gold-Fish Bowl, presented an impregnable 
front to the aspiring public. 

During recess time Yetta learned that Teacher was 
further intrenched in groundless prejudice. Sarah 
Schrodsky, class bureau of etiquette and of savoir-faire , 
warned the newcomer: — 

“Sooner you comes on the school mit dirt on the face 
267 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


she would n’t to have no kind feelin’s over you. She 
don’t lets you should set by her side: she don’t lets 
you should be monitors off of somethings: she don’t 
lets you should make an’ thing what is nice fer you.” 

Another peculiarity was announced by Sadie Gono- 
rowsky. “So you comes late on the school, she has 
fierce mads. Patrick Brennan, he comes late over 
yesterday on the morning und she don’t lets he should 
march first on the line.” 

“Did she holler?” asked Yetta, in an awed whisper. 

“No, she don’t need she should holler when she has 
mads. She looks on you mit long-mad-proud-looks und 
you don’t needs no hollers. She could to have mads 
’out sayin’ nothings und you could to have a scare 
over it. It ’s fierce. Und extra she goes und tells it 
out to Patrick’s papa — he ’s the cop mit buttons what 
stands by the corner — how Patrick comes late und 
Patrick gets killed as anything over it.” 

“On’y Patrick ain’t cried,” interruped Eva Gono- 
rowsky . She had heard her hero’s name and sprang to 
his defense. “Patrick tells me how his papa hits him 
awful hacks mit a club. I don’t know what is a club, 
on’y Patrick says it makes him biles on all his bones.” 

“You gets biles on your bones from off of cops 
sooner you comes late on the school!” gasped Yetta. 
“Nobody ain’t tell me nothings over that. I don’t 
know, neither, what is clubs — ” 

“I know what they are,” the more learned Sarah 
Schrodsky began. “It ’s a house mit man’s faces in 
the windows. It ’s full from mans by night. Ikey 
Borrachsohn’s papa ’s got one mit music inside.” 

268 


THE NEW MONITOR 

“I don’t likes it! I have a fraid over it!” wailed 
Yetta. “I don’t know does my mamma likes I should 
come somewheres where cops mit buttons makes like 
that mit me. I don’t know is it healthy fer me.” 

“Sooner you don’t come late on the school nobody 
makes like that mit you,” Eva reminded the panic- 
stricken newcomer, and for the first three days of her 
school life Yetta was very early and very dirty. 

Miss Bailey, with gentle tact, delivered little lec- 
tures upon the use and beauty of soap and water which 
Eva Gonorowsky applied to and discussed with the 
newcomer. 

“Miss Bailey is an awful nice teacher,” she began 
one afternoon. “I never in my world seen no nicer 
teacher. On’y she ’s fancy.” 

“I seen how she ’s fancy,” Yetta agreed. “She ’s got 
her hair done fancy mit combs und her waist is from 
fancy goods.” 

“Yes, she ’s fancy,” Eva continued. “She likes you 
should put you on awful clean. Say, what you think, 
she sends a boy home once — mit notes even — the 
while he puts him on dirty sweaters. She says like 
this: ‘Sweaters what you wear by nights und by days 
ain’t stylish fer school.’ Und I guess she knows what is 
stylish. I ain’t never in my world seen no stylisher 
teacher.” 

“ I don’t know be buttoned-in-back dresses the style 
this year,” ventured Yetta. The same misgiving had 
visited Eva, but she thrust it loyally from her. 

“They ’re the latest,” she declared. 

“It ’s good they ’re the style,” sighed Yetta. “Mine 
269 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


dress is a buttoned-in-back-dress, too. On’y I loses 
me the buttons from off of it. I guess maybe I sews 
’em on again. Teacher could to have, maybe, kind 
feelings, sooner she sees how I puts me on mit buttons 
on mine back und — ” 

“Sure could she!” interrupted the sustaining Eva. 

“Could she have kind feelings sooner I puts me on 
clean mit buttons on mine back und makes all things 
what is nice fer me? Oh, Eva, could she have feelin’s 
over me?” 

“Sure could she,” cried Eva. “Sooner you makes all 
them things she could to make you, maybe, monitors 
off of somethings.” 

“Be you monitors?” demanded Yetta in sudden 
awe. 

“Off of pencils. Ain’t you seen how I gives ’em out 
and takes ’em up? She gives me too a piece of paper 
mit writings on it. Sooner I shows it on the big boys 
what stands by the door in the yard, sooner they lets 
me I should come right up by Teacher’s room. You 
could to look on it.” And, after unfolding countless 
layers of paper and of cheesecloth handkerchief, she 
exhibited her talisman. It was an ordinary visiting 
card with a line of writing under its neatly engraved 
“Miss Constance Bailey,” and Yetta regarded it with 
envying eyes. 

“What does it say?” she asked. 

“Well,” admitted Eva with reluctant candor, “I 
could n’t to read them words, but I guess it says I should 
come all places what I wants the while I ’m good girls.” 

“ Can you go all places where you wants mit it? ” 

270 


THE NEW MONITOR 

“Sure could you.” 

“On theaytres?” 

“Sure.” 

“On the Central Park?” 

“Sure.” 

“On the country? Oh, I guess you couldn’t go on 
the country mit it?” 

“Sure could you. All places what you wants you 
could go sooner Missis Bailey writes on papers how 
you is good girls.” 

“Oh, how I likes she should write like that fer me. 
Oh, how I likes I should be monitors off of some- 
things.” 

“I tell you what you want to do: wash your hands! ” 
cried Eva, with sudden inspiration. “She ’s crazy for 
what is clean. You wash your hands und your face. 
She could to have feelin’s.” 

For some mornings thereafter Yetta was clean — 
and late. Miss Bailey overlooked the cleanliness, but 
noted the tardiness, and treated the offender with 
some of “the mads out sayin’ nothings” which Sadie 
had predicted. Still the “cop mit buttons und clubs” 
did not appear, though Yetta lived in constant terror 
and expected that every opening of the door would 
disclose that dread avenger. 

On the fourth morning of her ablutions Yetta 
reached room 18 while a reading lesson was absorbing 
Teacher’s attention. 

“Powers above!” ejaculated Patrick Brennan, with 
all the ostentatious virtue of the newly reformed, 
“here ’s that new kid late again!” 

271 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


The new kid, in copious tears, encountered one of the 
“long-mad-proud-looks” and cringed. 

“Why are you late?” demanded Miss Bailey. 

“I washes me the face,” whimpered the culprit, and 
the eyes with which she regarded Eva Gonorowsky 
added tearfully, “Villain, behold your work!” 

“So I see, but that is no reason for being late. You 
have been late twice a day, morning and afternoon, 
for the last three days and your only excuse has been 
that you were washing your face. Which is no excuse 
at all.” 

“I tells you ’scuse,” pleaded Yetta. “I tells you 
’scuse.” 

“Very well, I ’ll forgive you to-day. I suppose I 
must tolerate you.” 

“No-o-oh, ma’an, Teacher, Missis Bailey, don’t 
you do it,” screamed Yetta in sudden terror. “I’d 
have a awful frightened over it. I swear, I kiss up to 
God, I wouldn’t never no more come late on the school. 
I don’t needs nobody should make nothings like that 
mit me.” 

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Miss Bailey reassured her. 
“And you must expect something to happen if you will 
come late to school for no reason at all.” 

And Yetta was too disturbed by the danger so nar- 
rowly escaped to tell this charming but most strangely 
ignorant young person that the washing of a face was 
a most time-consuming process. Yetta’s one-roomed 
home was on the top floor, the sixth, and the only water 
supply was in the yard. Since the day her father had 
packed “assorted notions” into a black and shiny box 
272 


THE NEW MONITOR 

and had set out to seek his very elusive fortunes in 
the country, Yetta had toiled three times a morning 
with a tin pail full of water. This formed the family’s 
daily store and there was no surplus to be squandered. 
But to win Teacher’s commendation she had bent her 
tired energies to another trip and, behold, her reward 
was a scolding! 

Eva Gonorowsky was terribly distressed, and the 
plaintive sobs which, from time to time, rent the bosom 
of Yetta’s dingy plaid dress were as so many blows 
upon her adviser’s bruised conscience. Desperately 
she cast about for some device by which Teacher’s 
favor might be reclaimed and all jubilantly she im- 
parted it to Yetta. 

“Say,” she whispered, “I tell you what you want to 
do. You leave your mamma wash your dress.” 

“I don’t know would she like it. I washes me the 
face fer her und she has a mad on me.” 

“She ’d like it, all right, all right; ain’t I tell you 
how she is crazy for what is clean? You get your dress 
washed and it will look awful diff’rent. I done it und 
she had a glad.” 

Now a mamma who supports a family by the making 
of buttonholes, for one hundred of which she receives 
nine cents, has little time for washing, and Yetta 
determined, unaided and unadvised, to be her own 
laundress. She made endless trips with her tin pail 
from the sixth floor to the yard and back again, she 
begged a piece of soap from, the friendly “janitor 
lady,” and set valiantly to work. And Eva’s prophecy 
was fulfilled. The dress looked “awful diff’rent” when 
273 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


it had dried to half its already scant proportions. 
From various sources Yetta collected six buttons of 
widely dissimilar design and color and, with great 
difficulty, since her hands were puffed and clumsy from 
long immersion in strong suds, she affixed them to the 
back of the dress and fell into her corner of the family 
couch to dream of Miss Bailey’s surprise and joy when 
the blended plaid should be revealed unto her. Surely, 
if there were any gratitude in the hearts of teachers, 
Yetta should be, ere the sinking of another sun, “moni- 
tors off of somethings.” 

That Teacher was surprised, no one who saw the 
glance of puzzled inquiry with which she greeted the 
entrance of the transformed Yetta could doubt. That 
she had “a glad,” Yetta, who saw the stare replaced 
by a smile of quick recognition, was proudly assured. 
Eva Gonorowsky shone triumphant. 

“Ain’t I tell you?” she whispered jubilantly as she 
made room upon her little bench and drew Yetta 
down beside her. “Ain’t I tell you how she’s crazy 
fer what is clean? Und I ain’t never seen nothings 
what is clean like you be. You smells off of soap 
even.” 

It was not surprising, for Yetta had omitted the 
rinsing which some laundresses advise. She had wasted 
none of the janitor lady’s gift. It was all in the meshes 
of the flannel dress to which it lent, in addition to 
its reassuring perfume, a smooth damp slipperiness 
most pleasing to the touch. 

The athletic members of the First Reader class were 
made familiar with this quality before the day was 
274 


THE NEW MONITOR 

over, for, at the slightest exertion of its wearer, the 
rainbow dress sprang, chrysalis-like, widely open up 
the back. Then were the combined efforts of two of 
the strongest members of the class required to drag 
the edges into apposition while Eva guided the buttons 
to their respective holes and Yetta “let go of her 
breath” with an energy which defeated its purpose. 

These interruptions of the class routine were so 
inevitable a consequence of Swedish exercises and 
gymnastics that Miss Bailey was forced to sacrifice 
Yetta’s physical development to the general discipline 
and to anchor her in quiet waters during the frequent 
periods of drill. When she had been in time she sat 
at Teacher’s desk in a glow of love and pride. When 
she had been late she stood in a corner near the book- 
case and repented of her sin. And, despite all her 
exertions and Eva’s promptings, she was still occasion- 
ally late. 

Miss Bailey was seriously at a loss for some method 
of dealing with a child so wistful of eyes and so damag- 
ing of habits. A teacher’s standing on the books of 
the Board of Education depends to a degree upon the 
punctuality and regularity of attendance to which she 
can inspire her class, and Yetta was reducing the 
average to untold depths. 

“What happened to-day?” Teacher asked one 
morning for the third time in one week, and through 
Yetta’s noisy repentance she heard hints of “store” 
and “mamma.” 

“Your mamma sent you to the store?” she inter- 
preted, and Yetta nodded dolefully. 

275 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“And did you give her my message about that last 
week? Did you tell her that she must send you to school 
before nine o’clock? ” 

Again Yetta nodded, silent and resigned, evidently 
a creature bound upon a wheel, heartbroken but 
uncomplaining. 

“Well, then,” began Miss Bailey, struggling to main- 
tain her just resentment, “you can tell her now that I 
want to see her. Ask her to come to school to-morrow 
morning.” 

“Teacher, she couldn’t. She ain’t got no time. 
Und she don’t know where is the school neither.” 

“That ’s nonsense. You live only two blocks away. 
She sees it every time she passes the corner.” 

“She don’t never pass no corner. She don’t never 
come on the street. My mamma ain’t got time. She 
sews.” 

“ But she can’t sew always. She goes out, does n’t 
she, to do shopping and to see her friends?” 

“ She ain’t got friends. She ain’t got time she should 
have ’em. She sews all times. Sooner I lay me and 
the babies on the bed by night my mamma sews, Und 
sooner I stands up in mornings my mamma sews. All, 
all , all times she sews.” 

“And where is your father? Does n’t he help?” 

“Teacher, he is on the country. He is pedlar mans. 
He walk und he walk und he walk mit all things what is 
stylish in a box. On’y nobody wants they should buy 
somethings from off my papa. No, ma’an, Missis 
Bailey, that ain’t how they makes mit my poor papa. 
They goes und makes dogs should bite him on the legs. 

276 


THE NEW MONITOR 


That ’s how he tells in a letter what he writes on my 
mamma. Comes no money in the letter und me und 
my mamma we got it pretty hard. We got three 
babies.” 

“I ’m going home with you this afternoon,” an- 
nounced Miss Bailey in a voice which suggested neither 
“mads” nor clubs nor violence. 

After that visit things were a shade more bearable 
in the home of the absent peddler, and one half of 
Yetta’s ambition was achieved. Teacher had a “ glad ” ! 
There was a gentleness almost apologetic in her atti- 
tude and the hour after which an arrival should be met 
with a long-proud-mad-look was indefinitely post- 
poned. And, friendly relations being established, 
Yetta’s craving for monitorship grew with the passing 
days. 

When she expressed to Teacher her willingness to 
hold office she was met with unsatisfying but baffling 
generalities. 

“But surely I shall let you be monitor some day. 
I have monitors for nearly everything under the sun, 
now, but perhaps I shall think of something for you.” 

“I likes,” faltered Yetta, “I likes I should be monitor 
off of flowers.” 

“But Nathan Spiderwitz takes care of the window 
boxes. He won’t let even me touch them. Think what 
he would do to you.” 

“Then I likes I should be monitor to set by your 
place when you goes by the principal’s office.” 

“But Patrick Brennan always takes care of the 
children when I am not in the room.” 

277 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“He marches first by the line too. He ’s two moni- 
tors” 

“He truly is,” agreed Miss Bailey. “Well, I shall 
let you try that some day.” 

It was a most disastrous experiment. The First 
Reader class, serenely good under the eye of Patrick 
Brennan, who wore one of the discarded brass buttons 
of his sire pinned to the breast of his shirtwaist, found 
nothing to fear or to obey in his supplanter, and Miss 
Bailey returned to her kingdom to find it in an uproar 
and her regent in tears. 

“I don’t likes it. I don’t likes it,” Yetta wailed. 
“All the boys shows a fist on me. All the girls makes 
a snoot on me. All the childrens say cheek on me. I 
don’t likes it. I don’t likes it.” 

“Then you shan’t do it again,” Teacher comforted 
her. “You need n’t be a monitor if you don’t wish.” 

“ But I likes I shall be monitors. On’y not that kind 
from monitors.” 

“If you can think of something you would enjoy, 
I shall let you try again. But it must be something, 
dear, that no one is doing for me.” 

But Yetta could think of nothing until one afternoon 
when she was sitting at Teacher’s desk during a Swed- 
ish drill. All about her were Teacher’s things. Her 
large green blotter, her “from gold” inkstand and pens, 
her books where fairies lived. Miss Bailey was stand- 
ing directly in front of the desk and encouraging the 
First Reader class — by command and example — to 
strenuous waving of arms and bending of bodies. 

“Forward bend!” commanded, and bent, Miss 
278 


THE NEW MONITOR 

Bailey, and her buttoned-in-back waist followed the 
example of less fashionable models, shed its pearl 
buttons in a shower upon the smooth blotter, and gave 
Yetta the inspiration for which she had been waiting. 
She gathered the buttons, extracted numerous pins 
from posts of trust in her attire, and when Miss Bailey 
had returned to her chair, gently set about repairing 
the breach. 

“What is it?” asked Miss Bailey. Yetta, her mouth 
full of pins, exhibited the buttons. 

“Dear me! All those off!” exclaimed Teacher. “It 
was good of you to arrange it for me. And now will 
you watch it? You ’ll tell me if it should open again?” 

Yetta had then disposed the pins to the best ad- 
vantage and was free to voice her triumphant: 

“ Oh, I knows now how I wants I should be monitors ! 
Teacher, mine dear Teacher, could I be monitors off of 
the back of your dress?” 

“But surely, you may,” laughed Teacher, and Yetta 
entered straightway into the heaven of fulfilled desire. 

None of Eva’s descriptions of the joys of monitor- 
ship had done justice to the glad reality. After com- 
mon mortals had gone home at three o’clock, room 18 
was transformed into a land where only monitors and 
love abounded. And the new monitor was welcomed 
by the existing staff, for she had supplanted no one, 
and was so palpitatingly happy that Patrick Brennan 
forgave her earlier usurpation of his office and Nathan 
Spiderwitz bestowed upon her the freedom of the 
window boxes. 

“Ever when you likes you should have a crawley 
279 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


bug from off of the flowers; you tell me und I ’ll catch 
one fer you. I got lots. I don’t need ’em all.” 

“I likes I shall have one now,” ventured Yetta, and 
Nathan ensnared one and put it in her hand where it 
“crawlied” most pleasingly until Morris Mogilewsky 
begged it for his goldfish in their gleaming “fish 
theaytre.” Then Eva shared with her friend and pro- 
tege the delight of sharpening countless blunted and 
bitten pencils upon a piece of sandpaper. 

“Say,” whispered Yetta as they worked busily and 
dirtily, “say, I ’m monitors now. On’y I ain’t got no 
papers.” 

“You ask her. She ’ll give you one.” 

“I ’d have a shamed the while she gives me und my 
mamma whole bunches of things already. She could 
to think, maybe, I ’m a greedy. But I needs that paper 
awful much. I needs I shall go on the country for see 
mine papa.” 

“No, she don’t think you is greedy. Ain’t you 
monitors on the back of her waist? You should come 
up here ’fore the childrens comes for see how her buttons 
stands. You go und tell her you needs that paper.” 

Very diplomatically Yetta did. “Teacher,” she 
began, “ buttoned-in-back-dresses is stylish for ladies.” 

“Yes, honey,” Miss Bailey acquiesced, “so I thought 
when I saw that you wear one.” 

“On’y they opens,” Yetta went on, all flushed by 
this high tribute to her correctness. “All times they 
opens, yours und mine, und that makes us shamed 
feelings.” 

Again Miss Bailey acquiesced. 

280 


THE NEW MONITOR 

“So-o-oh,” pursued Yetta, with fast beating heart, 
“don’t you wants you should give me somethings 
from paper mit writings on it so I could come on your 
room all times for see how is your buttoned-in-back- 
dresses?” 

“A beautiful idea,” cried Teacher. “We ’ll take 
care of one another’s buttons. I ’ll write the card for 
you now. You know what to do with it?” 

“Yiss, ma’an. Eva tells me all times how I could 
come where I wants sooner you writes on papers how 
I is good girls.” 

“I ’ll write nicer things than that on yours,” said 
Miss Bailey. “You are one of the best little girls in 
the world. So useful to your mother and to the babies 
and to me ! Oh, yes, I ’ll write beautiful things on your 
card, my dear.” 

When the Grand Street car had borne Miss Bailey 
away, Yetta turned to Eva with determination in her 
eye and the “paper mit writings” in her hand. 

“ I ’m goin’ on the country for see my papa und birds 
und flowers und all them things what Teacher tells 
stand in the country. I need I should see them.” 

“Out your mamma?” Eva remonstrated. 

“Out, ’out my mamma. She ain’t got no time for 
go on no country. I don’t needs my mamma should 
go by my side. Ain’t you said I could to go all places 
what I wants I should go, sooner Teacher gives me 
papers mit writings?” 

“Sure could you,” Eva repeated solemnly. “There 
ain’t no place where you could n’t to go mit it.” 

“I ’ll go on the country,” said Yetta. 

281 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


That evening Mrs. Aaronsohn joined her neighbors 
upon the doorstep for the first time in seven years. 
For Yetta was lost. The neighbors were comforting 
her, but not resourceful. They all knew Yetta; knew 
her to be sensible and mature for her years even accord- 
ing to the exacting standard of the East Side. She 
would presently return, they assured the distraught 
Mrs. Aaronsohn, and pending that happy event they 
entertained her with details of the wanderings and 
home-comings of their own offspring. But Yetta did not 
come. The reminiscent mothers talked themselves into 
silence, the deserted babies cried themselves to sleep. 
Mrs. Aaronsohn carried them up to bed — she hardly 
knew the outer aspect of her own door — and returned 
to the then deserted doorstep to watch for her first- 
born. One by one the lights were extinguished, the 
sewing machines stopped, and the restless night of 
the quarter closed down. She was afraid to go oven as 
far as the corner in search of the fugitive. She could 
not have recognized the house which held her home. 

All her hopes were centered in the coming of Miss 
Bailey. When the children of happier women were 
setting out for school she demanded and obtained from 
one of them safe conduct to room 18. But Teacher, 
when Eva Gonorowsky had interpreted the tale of 
Yetta’s disappearance, could suggest no explanation. 

“She was with me until half -past three. Then she 
and Eva walked with me to the corner. Did she tell 
you, dear, where she was going?” 

“Teacher, yiss, ma’an. She says she goes on the 
country for see her papa und birds und flowers.” 

282 


THE NEW MONITOR 

When this was put into Jewish for Mrs. Aaronsohn, 
she was neither comforted nor reassured. Miss Bailey 
was puzzled but undismayed. “We ’ll find her,” she 
promised the now tearful mother. “I shall go with 
you to look for her. Say that in Jewish for me, Eva.” 

The principal lent a substitute. Room 18 was 
deserted by its sovereign; the pencils were deserted 
by their monitor; and Mrs. Aaronsohn, Miss Bailey, 
and Eva Gonorowsky, official interpreter, set out for 
the nearest drug store where a telephone might be. 
They inspected several unclaimed children before, in 
the station of a precinct many weary blocks away, 
they came upon Yetta. She was more dirty and 
bedraggled than she had ever been, but the charm of 
her manner was unchanged and, suspended about her 
neck, she wore a policeman’s button. 

“One of the men brought her in here at ten o’clock 
last night,” the man behind the blotter informed Miss 
Bailey, while Mrs. Aaronsohn showered abuse and 
caress upon the wanderer. “She was straying around 
the Bowery and she gave us a great game of talk about 
her father bein’ a bird. I guess he is.” 

“My papa und birds is on the country. I likes I 
shall go there,” said Yetta from the depths of her 
mother’s embrace. 

“ There, that ’s what she tells everyone. She has a 
card there with a Christian name and no address on 
it. I was going to try to identify her by looking for 
this Miss Constance Bailey.” 

“That is my name. I am her teacher. I gave her 
the card because — ” 


283 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“ I ’m monitors. I should go all places what I wants 
the while I ’m good girls, und Teacher writes it on 
pieces from paper. On’y I ain’t want I should come on 
no cops’ house. I likes I should go on the country for 
see my papa und birds und flowers. I says like that on 
a cop — I shows him the paper even — und he makes 
I shall come here on the cops’ house where my papa 
don’t stands und birds don’t stands und flowers don’t 
stands.” 

“When next you want to go to the country,” said 
Teacher, “you ought to let us know. You have fright- 
ened us all dreadfully, and that is a very naughty thing 
to do. If you ever run away again, I shall have to keep 
the promise I made to you long and long ago when you 
used to come late to school. I shall have to tolerate 
you.” 

But Yetta was undismayed. “I ain’t got no more a 
scare over that,” said she with a soft smile toward 
the brass-buttoned person behind the blotter. “Und 
I ain’t got no scare over cops neither; I never in mine 
world seen how they makes all things what is polite 
mit me und gives me I should eat.” 

“Well,” cautioned Teacher, “you must never do it 
again,” and turned her attention to the very erratic 
spelling of Sergeant Moloney’s official record of the 
flight of Yetta Aaronsohn. 

“Say,” whispered Eva, and there was a tinge of 
jealousy in her soft voice, “say, who gives you the 
button like Patrick Brennan ’s got?” 

“ The Cop y ” answered Yetta, pointing a dirty but 
reverential finger toward her new divinity. “I guess 
284 


THE NEW MONITOR 

maybe I turns me the dress around. Buttoned-in- 
front-mit-from-gold-button-suits is awful stylish. He ’s 
got ’em.” 

“ Think shame how you say,” cried Eva, with loyal 
eyes upon the neatly buttoned and all unsuspecting 
back of Miss Bailey. “Ain’t you seen how is Teacher’s 
back?” 

“Ain’t I monitors off of it?” demanded Yetta. 
“ Sure I know how is it. On’y I don’t know be they so 
stylish. Cops ain’t got ’em und, O Eva, cops is 
somethin’ grand! I turns me the dress around.” 


SONNY’S DIPLOMA 

By Ruth McEnery Stuart 

Y AS, sir; this is it. This here’s Sonny’s diploma 
thet you ’ve heerd so much about — sheepskin 
they call it, though it ain’t no mo’ sheepskin ’n what 
I am. I ’ve skinned too many not to know. Thess to 
think o’ little Sonny bein’ a grad’ j ate — an’ all by his 
own efforts, too! It is a plain-lookin’ picture, ez you 
say, to be framed up in sech a fine gilt frame; but it ’s 
worth it, an’ I don’t begrudge it to him. He picked 
out that red plush hisself. He ’s got mighty fine taste 
for a country-raised child, Sonny has. 

Seem like the oftener I come here an’ stan’ before 
it, the prouder I feel, an’ the mo’ I can’t reelize thet 
he done it. 

I ’d ’a’ been proud enough to ’ve him go through the 
reg’lar co’se of study, an’ be awarded this diplomy, but 
to ’ve seen ’im thess walk in an’ demand it, the way he 
done, an’ to prove his right in a fair fight — why, it 
tickles me so thet I thess seem to git a spell o’ the giggles 
ev’ry time I think about it. 

Sir? How did he do it? Why, I thought eve’ybody 
in the State of Arkansas knowed how Sonny walked 
over the boa’d o’ school directors, an’ took a diplomy 
in the face of Providence, at the last anniversary. 

I don’t know thet I ought to say that either, for they 
286 


SONNY’S DIPLOMA 

never was a thing done mo’ friendly an’ amiable on 
earth, on his part, than the takin’ of this dockiment. 
Why, no; of co’se he was n’t goin’ to that school — 
cert’n’y not. Ef he had b ’longed to that school, they 
would n’ ’a’ been no question about it. He ’d ’a’ thess 
grad j ’ated with the others. An’ when he went there with 
his ma an’ me, why, he ’ll tell you hisself that he had n’t 
no mo’ idee of gradj’atin ’n what I have this minute. 

An’ when he riz up in his seat, an’ announced his 
intention, why, you could ’a’ knocked me down with 
a feather. You see, it took me so sudden, an’ I did n’t 
see thess how he was goin’ to work it, never havin’ 
been to that school. 

Of co’se eve’ybody in the county goes to the grad- 
j’atin’, an’ we was all three settin’ there watchin’ the 
performances, not thinkin’ of any special excitement, 
when Sonny took this idee. 

It seems thet seein’ all the other boys gradj’ate put 
him in the notion, an’ he felt like ez ef he ought to be 
a-gradj’atin’, too. 

You see, he had went to school mo’ or less with all 
them fellers, an’ he knowed thet they did n’t, none o’ 
’em, know half ez much ez what he did, — though, to 
tell the truth, he ain’t never said sech a word, not even 
to her or me, — an’, seein’ how easy they was bein’ 
turned out, why, he thess reelized his own rights — an’ 
demanded ’em then an’ there. 

Of co’se we know thet they is folks in this here com- 
munity thet says thet he ain’t got no right to this 
diplomy; but what else could you expect in a jealous 
neighborhood where eve’ybody is mo’ or less kin? 

287 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

The way I look at it, they never was a diplomy earned 
quite so upright ez this on earth — never. Ef it was n’t, 
why, I would n’t allow him to have it, no matter how 
much pride I would ’a’ took, an’ do take, in it. But 
for a boy of Sonny’s age to ’ve had the courage to face 
all them people, an’ ask to be examined then an’ there, 
an’ to come out ahead, the way he done, why, it does 
me proud, that it does. 

You see, for a boy to set there seem’ all them know- 
nothin’ boys gradj’ate, one after another, offhand, the 
way they was doin’, was mighty provokin’, an’ when 
Sonny is struck with a sense of injestice, why, he ain’t 
never been known to bear it in silence. He taken that 
from her side o’ the house. 

I noticed, ez he set there that day, thet he began to 
look toler’ble solemn, for a festival, but it never crossed 
my mind what he was a-projeckin’ to do. Ef I had ’a’ 
suspicioned it, I ’m afeered I would ’ve opposed it, 
I ’d ’a’ been so skeert he would n’t come out all right; 
an’ ez I said, I did n’t see, for the life o’ me, how he 
was goin’ to work it. 

That is the only school in the country thet he ain’t 
never went to, ’cause it was started after he settled 
down to Miss Phoebe’s school. He would n ’t hardly 
’v went to it, nohow, though — less’n, of co’se, he ’d ’a’ 
took a notion. Th’ ain’t no ’casion to send him to a 
county school when he ’s the only one we ’ve got to 
edjercate. 

They ain’t been a thing I ’ve enjoyed ez much in 
my life ez my sackerfices on account o’ Sonny’s edjer- 
cation — not a one. Th’ ain’t a patch on any ol’ coat 
288 


SONNY’S DIPLOMA 

I Ve got but seems to me to stand for some advant- 
age to him. 

Well, sir, it was thess like I ’m a-tellin’ you. He set 
still ez long ez he could, an’ then he riz an’ spoke. Says 
he, “I have decided thet I ’d like to do a little gradj’atin 
this evenin’ myself,” thess that a- way. 

An’ when he spoke them words, for about a minute 
you could ’a’ heerd a pin drop; an’ then eve’ybody 
begin a-screechin’ with laughter. A person would 
think thet they ’d ’a’ had some consideration for a 
child standin’ up in the midst o’ sech a getherin’, tryin* 
to take his own part; but they did n’t. They thess 
laughed immod’rate. But they did n’t faze him. He 
had took his station on the flo’, an’ he helt his ground. 

Thess ez soon ez he could git a heerin’, why, he says, 
says he: “I don’t want anybody to think thet I ’m 
a-tryin’ to take any advantage. I don’t expec’ to 
gradj’ate without passin’ my examination. An’, mo’ ’n 
that,” says he, “I am ready to pass it now.” An’ 
then he went on to explain thet he would like to have 
anybody present thet was competent to do it to step for- 
ward an’ examine him — then an’ there. An’ he said 
thet ef he was examined fair and square, to the satis- 
faction of eve’ybody — an ’ did n't pass — why, he ’d 
give up the p’int. An’ he wanted to be examined oral 
— in eve’ybody’s hearin’ — free-handed an’ outspoke. 

Well, sir, seem like folks begin to see a little fun 
ahead in lettin’ him try it — which I don’t see thess 
how they could ’a’ hindered him, an’ it a free school, 
an’ me a taxpayer. But they all seemed to be in a 
pretty good humor by this time, an’ when Sonny put 
289 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


it to vote, why, they voted unanymous to let him try 
it. An’ all o’ them unanymous votes was n’t, to say, 
friendly, neither. Heap o’ them thet was loudest in 
their unanimosity was hopefully expectin’ to see him 
whipped out at the first question. Tell the truth, I 
mo’ ’n half feared to see it myself. I was that skeert 
I was fairly all of a trimble. 

Well, when they had done votin’, Sonny, after first 
thankin’ ’em — which I think was a mighty polite 
thing to do, an’ they full o’ the giggles at his little 
expense that minute — why, he went on to say thet 
he requi’ed ’em to make thess one condition , an’ that was 
thet any question he missed was to be passed on to 
them thet had been a-gradj’atin’ so fast, an’ ef they 
missed it, it was n’t to be counted ag’inst him. 

Well, when he come out with that, which, to my 
mind, could n’t be beat for fairness, why, some o’ the 
mothers they commenced to look purty serious, an’ 
see like ez ef they did n’t find it quite so funny ez it 
had been. You see, they say thet them boys had 
eve’y one reg’lar questions give’ out to ’em, an’ eve’y 
one had studied his own word; an’ ef they was to be 
questioned hit or miss, why they would n’t ’a’ stood 
no chance on earth. 

Of co’se they could n’t give Sonny the same questions 
thet had been give’ out, because he had heerd the 
answers, an’ it would n’t ’a’ been fair. So Sonny he 
told ’em to thess set down, an’ make out a list of ques- 
tions thet they ’d all agree was about of a’ equal 
hardness to them thet had been ast, an’ was of thess 
the kind of learnin’ thet all the reg’lar gradj’ates’s 
290 


SONNY’S DIPLOMA 

minds was sto’ed with, an’ thet either he knowed ’em 
or he did n’t — one. 

It don’t seem so excitin’, somehow, when I tell about 
it now; but I tell you for about a minute or so, whilst 
they was waitin’ to see who would undertake the job 
of examinin’ him, why, it seemed thet eve’y minute 
would be the next, as my ol’ daddy used to say. The 
only person present thet seemed to take things anyway 
ca’m was Miss Phoebe Kellogg, Sonny’s teacher. She 
has been teachin’ him reg’lar for over two years now, 
an’ ef she ’a’ had a right to give out diplomies, why, 
Sonny would ’a’ thess took out one from her; but she 
ain’t got no license to gradj’ate nobody. But she 
knowed what Sonny knowed, an’ she knowed thet ef 
he had a fair show, he ’d come thoo creditable to all 
hands. She loves Sonny thess about ez much ez we 
do, I believe take it all round. Th’ ain’t never been 
but one time in these two years thet she has, to say, 
got me out o’ temper, an’ that was the day she said to 
me thet her sure belief was thet Sonny was goin’ to 
make somethin ’ out 9 n hisself some day — like ez ef he 
had n’t already made mo’ ’n could be expected of a 
boy of his age. Tell the truth, I never in my life come 
so near sayin’ somethin’ I ’d ’a’ been shore to regret 
ez I did on that occasion. But of co’se I know she 
did n’t mean it. All she meant was thet he would turn 
out even mo’ ’n what he was now, which would be on’y 
nachel, with his growth. 

Everybody knows thet it was her that got him 
started with his collections an’ his libr’y. Oh, yes; 
he ’s got the best libr’y in the country, ’cep’n, of co’se, 
291 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


the doctor’s V the preacher’s — everybody round 
about here knows about that. He ’s got a hund’ed 
books an’ over. Well, sir, when he made that remark, 
thet any question thet he missed was to be give to the 
class, why, the whole atmosp’ere took on a change o’ 
temp’ature. Even the teacher was for backin’ out o’ 
the whole business square; but he did n ’t thess seem 
to dare to say so. You see, after him a-favorin’ it, it 
would ’a’ been a dead give-away. 

Eve’ybody there had saw him step over an’ whisper 
to Brother Binney when it was decided to give Sonny 
a chance, an’ they knowed thet he had asked him to 
examine him. But now, instid o’ callin’ on Brother 
Binney, why, he thess said, says he: “I suppose I 
ought not to shirk this duty. Ef it’s to be did,” says 
he, “I reckon I ought to do it — an’ do it I will.” You 
see, he dares n’t allow Brother Binney to put questions, 
for fear he ’d call out some thet his smarty graduates 
could n’t answer. 

So he thess claired his th’oat, an’ set down a minute 
to consider. An’ then he riz from his seat, an’ remarked, 
with a heap o’ hems and haws , thet of co’se everybody 
knowed thet Sonny Jones had had unusual advantages 
in some respec’s, but thet it was one thing for a boy 
to spend his time a-picnickin’ in the woods, getherin’ 
all sorts of natural curiosities, but it was quite another 
to be a scholar accordin’ to books, so ’s to be able to 
pass sech a’ examination ez would be a credit to a 
State institution o’ learnin’, sech ez the one over which 
he was proud to preside. This word struck me par- 
tic’lar, “proud to preside,” which, in all this, of co’se, 
292 


SONNY’S DIPLOMA 


I see he was castin’ a slur on Sonny’s collections of 
birds’ eggs, an’ his wild flowers, an’ wood specimens, 
an’ minerals. He even went so far ez to say thet ol’ 
Proph’, the half-crazy nigger thet tells fortunes, an* 
gathers herbs out’n the woods, an’ talks to hisself, 
likely knew more about a good many things than any- 
body present, but thet, bein’ ez he did n’t know b 
from a bull’s foot, why, it would n’t hardly do to 
gradj’ate him — not castin’ no slurs on Master Sonny 
Jones, nor makin’ no invijus comparisons, of co’se. 

Well, sir, there was some folks there thet seemed to 
think this sort o’ talk was mighty funny an’ smart. 
Some o’ the mothers acchilly giggled over it out loud, 
they was so mightily tickled. But Sonny he thess 
stood his ground an’ waited. Most any boy of his 
age would ’a’ got flustered, but he did n’t. He thess 
glanced around unconcerned at all the people a-settin* 
around him, thess ez ef they might ’a’ been askin’ him 
to a picnic instid o’ him provokin’ a whole school com- 
mittee to wrath. 

Well, sir, it took that school teacher about a half 
hour to pick out the first question, an’ he did n’t pick 
it out then. He ’d stop, an’ he ’d look at the book, an’ 
then he ’d look at Sonny, an’ then he ’d look at the 
class — an’ then he ’d turn a page, like ez ef he could n’t 
make up his mind, an’ he was afeerd to resk it, less ’n 
it might be missed, an’ be referred back to the class. 
I never did see a man so overwrought over a little thing 
in his life — never. They do say, though, that school 
teachers feels mighty bad when their scholars misses 
any pi’nt in public. 


293 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Well, sir, he took so long that d’rickly everybody 
begin to git wo’e out, an’ at last Sonny, why, he got 
tired, too, an’ he up an’ says, says he, “Ef you can’t 
make up your mind what to ask me, teacher, why n’t 
you let me ask myself questions? An’ ef my questions 
seem too easy, why, I ’ll put ’em to the class.” 

An’, sir, with that he thess turns round, an’ he says, 
says he, “Sonny Jones,” says he, addressin’ hisself, 
“what ’s the cause of total eclipse of the sun?” Thess 
that a- way he said it; an’ then he turned around, an’ 
he says, says he : — 

“Is that a hard enough question?” 

“Very good,” says teacher. 

An’, with that, Sonny, he up an’ picks up a’ orange 
an’ a’ apple off the teacher’s desk, an’ says he, “This 
orange is the earth, an’ this here apple is the. sun.” 
An’, with that, he explained all they is to total eclipses. 
I can’t begin to tell you thess how he expressed it, 
because I ain’t highly edjercated myself, an’ I don’t 
know the specifactions. But when he had got thoo, he 
turned to the teacher, an’ says he, “Is they anything 
else thet you’d like to know about total eclipses?” 
An’ teacher says, says he, “Oh, no; not at all.” 

They do say thet them graduates had n’t never went 
so far ez total eclipses, an’ teacher would n’t ’a’ had 
the subject mentioned to ’em for nothin’; but I don’t 
say that ’s so. 

Well, then Sonny, he turned around, an’ looked at 
the company, an’ he says, “Is everybody satisfied?” 
An’ all the mothers an’ fathers nodded their heads 
“yes.” 


294 


SONNY’S DIPLOMA 


An’ then he waited thess a minute, an’ he says, says 
he, “Well, now I ’ll put the next question.” 

“Sonny Jones,” says he, “what is the difference 
between dew an’ rain an’ fog an’ hail an’ sleet an’ snow?” 

“Is that a hard enough question?” 

Well, from that he started in, an’ he did n’t stop tell 
he had expounded about every kind of dampness that 
ever descended from heaven or rose from the earth. 
An’ after that, why, he went on a-givin’ out one ques- 
tion after another, an’ answerin’ ’em, tell everybody had 
declared theirselves entirely satisfied that he was fully 
equipped to gradj’ate — an’, tell the truth, I don’t 
doubt thet a heap of ’em felt their minds considerably 
relieved to have it safely over with without puttin’ their 
graduates to shame, when what does he do but say, 
“Well, ef you ’re satisfied, why, I am — an’ yet,” says 
he, “I think I would like to ask myself one or two hard 
questions more, thess to make shore.” An’ befo’ 
anybody could stop him, he had said: — 

“Sonny Jones, what is the reason thet a bird has 
feathers and a dog has hair?” An’ then he turned 
around deliberate, an’ answered: “I don’t know. 
Teacher, please put that question to the class.” 

Teacher had kep’ his temper purty well up to this 
time, but I see he was mad now, an’ he riz from his 
chair, an’ says he: “ This examination has been declared 
finished, an’ I think we have spent ez much time on it 
ez we can spare.” An’ all the mothers they nodded 
their heads, an’ started a-whisperin’ — most impolite. 

An’ at that, Sonny, why, he thess set down as modest 
an’ peaceable ez anything; but ez he was settin’ he 

m 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


remarked that he was in hopes thet some o’ the regl’ars 
would ’a’ took time to answer a few questions thet had 
bothered his mind f’om time to time — an’ of co’se 
they must know; which, to my mind, was the modes’est 
remark a body ever did make. 

Well, sir, that ’s the way this diplomy was earned — 
by a good, hard struggle, in open daylight, by unany- 
mous vote of all concerned — an’ unconcerned for 
that matter. An’ my opinion is thet if they are those 
who have any private opinions about it, an’ they 
did n’t express ’em that day, why they ain’t got no 
right to do it underhanded, ez I am sorry to say has 
been done. 

But it’s his diplomy, an’ it’s handsomer fixed up than 
any in town, an’ I doubt ef they ever was one anywhere 
thet was took more paternal pride in. 

Wife she ain’t got so yet thet she can look at it without 
sort o’ cryin’ — thess the look of it seems to bring back 
the figure o’ the little feller, ez he helt his ground, single- 
handed, at that gradj’atin that day. Well, sir, we was 
so pleased to have him turned out a full gradj’ate thet, 
after it was all over, why, I riz up then and there, 
though I could n’t hardly speak for the lump in my 
th’oat, an’ I said thet I wanted to announce thet Sonny 
was goin’ to have a gradj’atin party out at our farm 
that day week, an’ thet the present company was all 
invited. 

An’ he did have it, too; an’ they all come, every 
mother’s son of ’em — from a to izzard — even to them 
that has expressed secret dissatisfactions; which they 
was all welcome, though it does seem to me thet, ef I ’d 
296 


SONNY’S DIPLOMA 

been in their places, I ’d ’a’ hardly had the face to come 
an’ talk, too. 

I ’m this kind of a disposition myself : ef I was ever 
to go to any kind of a collation thet I expressed dis- 
approval of, why, the supper could n’t be good enough 
not to choke me. 

An’ Sonny, why, he ’s constructed on the same plan. 
We ain’t never told him of any o’ the remarks thet has 
been passed. They might git his little feelin’s hurted, 
an’ ’t would n’t do no good, though some few has 
been made to his face by one or two smarty, ill-raised 
boys. 

Well, sir, we give ’em a fine party, ef I do say it my- 
self, an’ they all had a good time. Wife she whipped up 
eggs an’ sugar for a week befo’ han’, an’ we set the table 
out under the mulberries. It took eleven little niggers 
to wait on ’em, not countin’ them thet worked the fly- 
fans. An’ Sonny he ast the blessin’. 

Then, after they ’d all et, Sonny he had a’ exhibition 
of his little specimens. He showed ’em his bird eggs, 
an’ his wood samples, an’ his stamp album, an’ his 
scroll-sawed things, an’ his clay-moldin’s, an’ all his 
little menagerie of animals an’ things. I ruther think 
everybody was struck when they found thet Sonny 
knowed the botanical names of every one of the 
animals he ’s ever tamed, an’ every bird. Miss Phoebe, 
she did n’t come to the front much. She stayed along 
with wife, an’ helped ’tend to the company, but I could 
see she looked on with pride; an’ I don’t want nothin’ 
said about it, but the boa’d of school directors was so 
took with the things she had taught Sonny thet, when 
297 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

the evenin’ was over, they ast her to accept a situation 
in the academy next year, an’ she ’s goin’ to take it. 

An’ she says thet ef Sonny will take a private co’se of 
instructions in nachel sciences, an’ go to a few lectures, 
why, th’ ain’t nobody on earth that she ’d ruther see 
come into that academy ez teacher, — that is, of co’se, 
in time. But I doubt ef he ’d ever keer for it. 

I ’ve always thought thet school-teachin’, to be a 
success, has to run in families, same ez anythin’ else — 
yet, th’ ain’t no tellin’. 

I don’t keer what he settles on when he ’s grown; I 
expect to take pride in the way he 'll do it — an’ that ’s 
the principal thing, after all. 

It’s the “Well done” we ’re all a-hopin’ to hear at 
the last day; an’ the po’ laborer thet digs a good ditch ’ll 
have thess ez good a chance to hear it ez the man that 
owns the farm. 


THE STORY OF THE PRUNES 


By Brewer Corcoran 


HE doors of the great dining room at the school 



JL stood open. Beyond them, a broad aisle stretched 
down the center of the room, with tables extending at 
right angles from its either side. At least one hundred 
boys were standing behind the plain wooden chairs. 
More were rushing in to fill the vacant places. 

Charlie Fitzhugh stopped in the doorway in surprise. 
He had eaten in many strange corners of the world — 
under a khaki tent in the muggy jungle, on a troop- 
ship, in far eastern cafes, where youngsters are seldom 
seen — but this was nearer nature than them all. 

“Hurry up; you’ll be late!” exclaimed a master 
with a big bushy beard, who stood by the door, watch 
in hand. 

“Where shall I go?” stammered Fitzhugh. “I’ve 
just come.” 

“Hm!” growled Mr. Brown, looking him over. 
“Whose dormitory are you in? ” 

“In ours,” piped the irresistible Chub, who was close 
behind Fitzhugh. “Mr. Mason asked me to take care 
of him. Can’t he sit at our table? ” 

“Is there a vacant place?” 

“Just one,” the boy replied, “and I ’d like to have 
Fitzhugh with me, so I can look after him.” 


299 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


The big master looked the two lads over. “He ap- 
pears able to look after himself. It would be better 
for you, Fitzhugh, if you kept away from Miller.” He 
glared at Chub from under his militant eyebrows. 
“You ’ll get him into trouble; you can’t keep out of it; 
I don’t believe you want to.” He looked at his watch 
and snapped it to. “All right,” he growled, “go ahead. 
You ’re almost late.” 

As the two boys scurried into the room, Mr. Brown 
closed the doors and stalked to his place at the head 
table. He did n’t like boys, and he did n’t hesitate to 
let everyone know it. He was there to rule the big 
school building, and to teach. He did both with a 
rod of iron. But he did both well. 

Chub pushed Fitzhugh to a chair at the side of a table 
about which twelve other boys stood nervously. At its 
head was a small, black-clad, white-haired man with 
dreamy blue eyes and a haunting smile. He looked in- 
quiringly at Charlie, then at Chub, and then calmly 
bowed his head as Mr. Brown lifted his voice in thanks 
for the various blessings about to be showered on them 
all. At his last word there was a rattle of chairs, a roar 
of voices in eager conversation, and the hungry boys 
crashed into their seats and began the really serious 
business of the evening. 

The little white-haired man looked down the table 
at Fitzhugh. “You must be a new boy,” he stated. 
“I have n’t seen you before.” 

“It’s Charlie Fitzhugh, sir. He’s to be in the fourth 
and lives in our dormitory,” proclaimed Chub, theo- 
retically for the benefit of Mr. Dickson, but really so 
300 


THE STORY OF THE PRUNES 

that the boys at the table might know who he was. 
“Fitzhugh, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Dick- 
son,” he announced grandly. Then, under his breath, 
“Duck your head to the fellows, too, you wop!” 

“So this is Fitzhugh, is it?” smiled the old man. 
“The rector told me that you were coming. I’ve been 
looking for you, my lad. Your father was one of my 
boys. We’re all proud of ‘Vic’ Fitzhugh.” 

“‘Vic Fitzhugh!’” chimed in Chub. “Mr. Mason 
said his pater was General Fitzhugh.” 

“He was ‘Vic’ first, Chub, and we were just as 
proud of him then as we are now.” 

“So this is ‘Vic the Second,’ is it?” asked Swamp 
Fenn, who sat at Mr. Dickson’s right. 

“Not yet. Fitzhugh must prove himself his father’s 
son before he can be called ‘Vic.’ The really old boys, 
and a few of us old masters who are left, remember 
how Fitzhugh’s father came to be called ‘Vic.’ Here 
it’s going to be a title that must be won, just as ‘Gen- 
eral’ is in the Philippines.” 

“Tell us the story,” bubbled Fatty Hicks, his mouth 
full and a fork loaded with meat poised in midair. 

“Not now, Edward. You ’d forget to eat if I did. 
And you’re really looking thin this fall.” 

Swamp beat on the table with his knife. “Right on 
your lily-white neck, Fatness! Score one for Mr. Dick- 
son.” The boys joined in the laughter. 

Good-natured, lumbering, stall-fed Edward Hicks 
grinned appreciatively. “Thanks, sir,” he chuckled. 
“ Mamma said for me to eat plenty of wholesome food. 
Biff, bounce me that sponge cake. Don’t go to sleep 
301 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


about it. Little Eddie only weighs one hundred and 
eighty and he’s looking thin and hungry.” 

“No, you don’t,” warned Ted Van Nest, grabbing 
the cake from Biff. “He ate it all last night. I’m 
going to fight a couple of rounds with a hunk of this.” 

Mr. Dickson had turned to the boy on his left and 
begun a discussion of a game of racquets they had 
played that afternoon. Chub stopped eating long 
enough to nod to Fitzhugh. “Old Bennie ’s a wonder, 
ain’t he? Knew it would rattle you, if he told that 
story. Always thinking of us kids. That’s why we’d 
go die if he told us to.” 

Fitzhugh looked at the little man and recalled a 
story that he had heard. It was one night, away up 
in the hills of Mindanao, that his father had told him 
of Benjamin Dickson. He appreciated it now. Also 
he began to understand why the sunburnt soldier’s eyes 
filled with tears when he spoke of this man, who 
dreamed his life away over his great organ and his 
violin. Fitzhugh made two resolutions on the spot. 
The first was that some day Mr. Dickson should call 
him “Vic” before the whole school, and the second 
that never would he do anything that would bring a 
look of displeasure into those kindly eyes. 

It did n’t take Fitzhugh long to make himself at 
home. Six others, out of the fourteen at the table, 
were Hoplites, now his chosen friends and sworn allies. 
Fatty Hicks was a candidate, but Chub said Fatty 
lacked imagination; Swamp blackballed him on the 
grounds that there ’d be no feed for the rest if Fatty 
attended a Hoplite spread. 

302 


THE STORY OF THE PRUNES 


Jim Hillman, a rangy, pimple-faced, shifty-eyed 
youth, who sat directly across the table from Fitz, had 
no such ambition. Jim was the Big Noise of the Barn 
Stormers, who inhabited the Old Lower — the Hop- 
lites’s rival for the leadership of the fourth. Both 
bands were as loosely organized as the Song Birds of 
the fifth, or the Never Sweats of the sixth. All had 
their own songs to sing, their highly polished honor to 
defend. If one made good as a Song Bird, he became 
a Never Sweat in his sixth-form year. The Hoplites 
and the Barn Stormers were locking horns for promo- 
tion and future control of the Song Birds. No quarter 
was given or asked. There was only one article on their 
code of warfare — the game must be played without 
the aid of a master. 

Hillman heard Chub tell Mr. Brown that Fitzhugh 
was under his wing, but he did n’t dream that he could 
yet be of the chosen. He knew that election to Hop- 
lite honors was hard to win and the path to glory long. 
Also he knew Chub’s fondness for the forbidden joys of 
hazing new boys. The two had at least one thing in 
common. 

So Jim looked Charlie Fitzhugh over and sized him 
up as a stranger in a strange land, therefore one who 
should promptly be taken in. He was most polite 
to the youngster. He smiled and looked at his plate. 
It was empty. “I see you are ready for your dessert, 
Mr. Fitzhugh,” he said. “Won’t you have some of 
this sponge cake? It’s good — as early in the term 
as this.” 

Fitzhugh looked at him, grinned, and took the cake. 

303 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“Forget the ‘Mister,’” he said, “I’m just plain Fitz- 
hugh.” 

“Right you are!” laughed Jim. “If any one 
calls you handsome, tell me and I’ll lick him. I hate 
liars.” He held our a saucer of prunes. “Try some 
of these?” 

Fitzhugh looked at them doubtfully. He had never 
lived in a boarding house. “ What are they? ” he asked. 

“Cuban plums,” replied Jim, quickly. “Take 
’em and put a lot of vinegar on ’em. They’re distinctly 
O. K. that way.” 

Fitzhugh was curious as well as hungry. Also he 
had been brought up among white people who told the 
truth. The prunes looked good to him and he fell. He 
took them and poured on the vinegar. The rest of the 
boys kept on talking busily, but they watched Fitz- 
hugh out of the corner of their eyes. Chub and Swamp 
alone failed to see the trap set for their friend. They 
were discussing their chance of making the eleven. 

Fitzhugh put a prune in his mouth. A pained look 
spread over his face. His eyes began to water. “What 
manner of plum is this?” he asked himself. 

“Swallow it!” he heard Hillman hiss. Then he 
heard him say to Fatty: “Shut up, you tack-head! 
You’ll give the game away to old Bennie.” 

Fitz made a desperate effort. He tried to cough, 
but almost choked. 

Chub and Swamp turned like flashes at the noise, 
saw the vinegar before Fitz, saw Jim Hillman laughing. 
They understood. Chub himself had invented that 
game the spring before, and now here was an enemy 
304 


THE STORY OF THE PRUNES 

stealing his thunder and making it roar about the head 
of a Hoplite. It would be hard to say which was the 
more serious offense in Chub’s eyes. 

Chub turned on Jim, and said, in a low, even voice, 
“Fitzhugh ’s a Hoplite. You score now, but look out. 
He’ll come back. If he does n’t I will.” 

“Me, too,” chimed in the angry Swamp. 

Jim roared. “Oh, the brave Hoplites! First blood 
this week, too. My, but you’re an easy bunch! That 
yap is just your style. Why don’t you get some live 
ones in your bunch of condensed-milk sops?” 

Chub turned scarlet. He was too mad to speak. 
Swamp was, too, but he managed to land his heel on 
Jim’s foot. 

“Cut that!” snarled Jim. “You’ll get us all snagged 
by Bennie.” 

Fitzhugh, in the meantime, gave one desperate gulp. 
He remembered that he was a Hoplite and must die 
game. The prune slipped, stuck, slipped again, and 
went down. He saw a glass of water before him, 
grabbed it, and swallowed it. 

All but the Hoplites howled. The game was won. 
Mr. Dickson looked up and saw that Fitzhugh was in 
trouble. He noted the angry looks of the Hoplites and 
the joy on the faces of the Barn Stormers. He was wise 
beyond his years. “What is the matter, Fitzhugh?” 
he asked. “Don’t you like your prunes?” 

“Not very well, I guess,” gasped Fitz. 

Mr. Dickson looked quietly around. He saw what 
he saw. “Most of us do,” he said, with an innocent 
smile. “James is very fond of them. If you are not 
305 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

going to eat yours, suppose you give them to him. We 
don’t believe in wasting things at St. Jo’s.” 

“All right, sir, he can have them,” grinned Fitz. 
He passed the mess across the table. 

“Eat them, James; they will be good for you,” 
said the master. 

“I don’t think I care for any to-night,” the boy 
replied gruffly. 

“I think you do, James,” came the firm reply. “You 
old boys must set the new ones a good example by not 
finding fault with the food.” 

“I’ve had all I want,” stammered Jim, getting redder 
each second under the triumphant gaze of the Hoplites 
and the innocent smile of the master. “They — 
they’re bad.” 

“I don’t think that can be possible; the matron is 
very careful about such things.” 

Jim pulled himself together. He was cornered. 
“There’s vinegar on ’em, sir,” he said slowly. 

“Vinegar? Impossible!” Mr. Dickson was much 
surprised. “Who put it there? Do you usually put 
vinegar on your prunes, Fitzhugh?” 

“I don’t know. I never saw any before.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed the now smiling master. “I 
thought as much.” He turned solemnly to Hillman. 
“James, the rector has forbidden the hazing of new 
boys; I do not approve of it myself. But, with perfect 
loyalty to the head, I think I may overlook this case, 
especially as it is you, of whom I am so fond and for 
whom I hope such great things. In fact, I may say 
that I have made up my mind to do so, James. But” 
306 


THE STORY OF THE PRUNES 


— Jim shivered — “I want you to do me a favor in 
return. Will you?” He paused. “Thank you. I want 
you to eat those prunes. I do not understand that a 
rule has been passed forbidding the hazing of old boys. 
But I will consult the head about the matter, James, 
if you feel that an injustice is being done you. Shall 
I?” 

Jim shook his head and took the prunes. The old 
master smiled sweetly. 

“Thank you, James,” he said. “Are they nice?” 

Jim put one in his mouth, and grabbed a glass of 
water. The boys at the table roared again. He looked 
up at the master, his eyes flashing. 

“They’re fine. I’ll finish ’em — if the water lasts. 
You man the pitcher, Ted, and keep pouring while I 
eat. I’m the goat, sir. You score twice. I won’t do it 
again.” 

“ I would n’t,” agreed the master, as he pushed his 
chair back from the table. He rose and started to leave 
the room, then he turned. “James,” he called back, 
“you may finish them to-morrow night — if they are 
still here.” 


THE COMEDY OF THE HERR 
PROFESSOR 

By Ida Keniston 


N EARLY a dozen fellows of the class of ’99 in B 

College had met in Hammond’s room. 

The subject under discussion was the German play 

to be given in the B Opera House the following week 

by the juniors. For many years it had been the custom 
for the senior class of the college to give a French or a 
German play in the April preceding their graduation. 
This year the play to be given was a comedy that had 
been written for the occasion by Herr Ludwig, the Ger- 
man professor. Herr Ludwig, incensed by the poor 
work of the seniors, had induced the faculty to refuse 
permission to the senior class to present the play, 
and that privilege had been accorded instead to the 
juniors. Great was the wrath of the seniors thereat, 
and the informal gathering of the fellows in Ham- 
mond’s room gradually resolved itself into an indigna- 
tion meeting. 

“I tell you, fellows,” said Blake, “we ought to stop 
that little comedy of the professor’s.” 

“Agreed,” said Ainslie; “but how?” 

“I’ll tell you,” said Mitchell. “Capture one or two 
of their leading players, entice them away — say, the 
308 


COMEDY OF THE HERR PROFESSOR 

night before the dramatic — and keep them locked up 
somewhere, under guard, until Saturday. That would 
rather blight the performance.” 

“Good!” exclaimed Blake, in his excitement losing 
his balance and permitting his chair to come down on 
all fours. “Let’s do it.” He drew a long puff at his 
pipe, and carefully restored his chair to its more normal 
position of rearing back on its hind legs. 

“I vote we capture Gus Henderson,” suggested an- 
other of the party. “I believe he is to be the star actor. 
You know he is such an Adonis, anyway, and they say 
he has always been a bright and shining light in amateur 
theatricals.” 

“And that little Schneckenberger is to be ‘leading 
lady,’” added Blake. “He is German, you know, so 
of course he has the lingo pat; and then his father is 
an actor, so he probably has the stage business all 
right.” 

“Well, say we get those two fellows if we can — or 
either of them would do,” said Hammond. “I vote we 
tackle Henderson first. Schnecky rooms in Professor 
Silbee’s wing, and you know old Silly’s habit of prowl- 
ing around at night.” 

It was finally arranged that a committee of three 
should take it upon themselves to look out for a suit- 
able place to keep their captives, and lots were drawn 
to see who should be of the party to capture the 
juniors’ “star actor.” 

About half past eleven on the Thursday night before 
the play was to be given, a little party of seniors tip- 
toed stealthily down the corridor that led to Hender- 
309 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

son’s rooms. They paused at the door for a brief re- 
connoissance. 

“There’s a dim light burning,” whispered Blake, 
after an observation through the keyhole. “Evidently 
he has n’t gone to bed.” 

Hammond cautiously and noiselessly tried the handle 
of the door. “Locked. We ’ll have to knock. Be ready, 
fellows.” 

A gentle tap at the door brought no response. A 
second and more imperative tap was followed by the 
sound of approaching footsteps. The door was thrown 
open by Henderson, who, as if surprised at receiving 
visitors at such a late hour, peered out curiously. 
“What is— ” 

He found no time to finish the sentence. A strong 
arm was thrown around his neck, a handkerchief stuffed 
into his mouth, and before he fairly knew what had hap- 
pened the four men had pushed their way into the room, 
had closed the door, and swiftly and silently grappling 
with him, had him down on the floor, with one man 
sitting on his chest. 

Henderson struggled furiously, but the numbers 
were against him, and in less time that it takes to 
tell it, they had rolled him over on his face and se- 
curely tied his hands behind his back. Then he was 
rolled over again, and permitted to rise to a sitting 
position. 

“Oh! the juniors will give a German play, will 
they?” sneered Blake. “Oh, yes, but they’ll find their 
star actor missing to-morrow night.” 

“Sorry, Henderson,” remarked Hammond, “but 
310 


COMEDY OF THE HERR PROFESSOR 

we think your health requires a change of air. We 
won’t hurt you any, but we have provided other 
quarters for you until Saturday. Get up.” 

At this moment the conspirators received a sudden 
and most unpleasant shock. 

“ Zhentlemen ! ” said the deep guttural accents of 
Herr Ludwig. 

They turned with a start, to behold Herr Ludwig, 
professor of German and mathematics, standing in the 
doorway that led from Henderson’s sitting room to his 
bedroom. Every senior’s heart sank within him, and 
as Herr Ludwig came forward slowly, every man stood 
as if under a spell, watching the familiar bent figure, 
the long gray hair, and the bushy eyebrows above the 
heavy iron-rimmed spectacles. 

“Zhentlemen, this has gone far enough! Release his 
bonds,” pointing to the captive. 

One of the seniors sulkily obeyed. 

“And remove that obstruction from his mouth.” 
This was done. 

The professor glared at the unhappy students. Evi- 
dently his wrath was rising and would soon find vent in 
words. 

“Herr Blake! One moment, if you please,” as Blake, 
who was nearest the door, began sidling in that direc- 
tion, thinking he might escape unobserved. “Herr 
Blake, I haf seen you — I recognize you — and you, 
Herr Mitchell — and Hammond — and Ainslie.” 

“<So/” Oh, the scorn in the little professor’s voice! 
“You would haf it that our Deutsche play would not 
be gifen. But it shall be gifen ! ” 

311 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“It — we — we only meant it for a joke,” stam- 
mered Blake. 

“Oh, a choke 1 Well, it iss a ferry poor choke! I like 
a good choke myself. But this — to seek to prevent 
our play when we haf spent our time and money — 
when we haf for weeks prepared for it — when the 
public haf bought our tickets. Was ftir ein? What kind 
off a choke think you President Ambrose will call it? 
You know what he thinks of practical chokes! You 
will not find it a ferry funny choke, when you are ex- 
pelled, or efen only suspended for a few months!” 

The seniors looked at each other uneasily. Would 
it really mean anything so serious as expulsion or sus- 
pension? 

“It iss lucky I was here to-night,” said the professor. 
“I come here to coach our friend Henderson one little 
more time. He iss a good actor, but his Sherman is 
not all I could wish. But it iss not so bad as the seniors' 
— that iss one more thing, zhentlemen. There iss not 
one off you here whose standing in his class iss such that 
he can afford to play such chokes. Herr Blake, your 
Sherman would disgrace a freshman! Herr Mitchell, 
your mathematics — ” The professor threw out his 
hands in eloquent silence. 

Hammond nudged Ainslie. “Say something,” he 
whispered. “We’ve got to say something .” 

Thus urged, Ainslie stammered, “Herr Professor — 
if — we — if you’ll let us off, and not report us to 
Prex — to President Ambrose — we — we’ll all try 
to do our best in German and mathematics after this. 
And we’ll be awfully grateful to you.” 

312 


COMEDY OF THE HERR PROFESSOR 

“Oh!” said the professor. “It were almost worth 
trying to see what your ‘best’ would be. If you and 
Herr Mitchell could pass a creditable examination in 
mathematics, it would be a most great surprise.” He 
scratched his stubbly beard reflectively. “Well — I 
will make a bargain with you. If you will efery one off 
you gif me your word as a zhentleman that you will do 
your best in Sherman and mathematics for the rest of 
the term, I will say nothing about this to President 
Ambrose. Do you promise?” 

“Yes, sir,” and “yes, sir,” came from the seniors. 

“And you gif me your word that there will be 
no more attempt to interfere with our play in any 
way?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Ferry well. I will say no more. I forget it all. So 
long as you keep your word I will nefer allude to it 
again. But if I haf occasion to be dissatisfied with 
your work, I shall remember, and I may tell President 
Ambrose what I remember. That iss all. Good-night, 
Herren.” 

The seniors filed slowly and sheepishly from the 
room. 

The Herr Professor looked at Henderson. “It iss 
lucky we had been warned in time. I think our play 
will be gifen. And we haf a very good actor.” 

The play was “gifen,” and proved a great success. 
Henderson fully satisfied the expectations of his friends 
that he would be the star actor; his six feet of masculine 
grace and beauty, the thrilling cadence of his voice in the 
love scenes quite captivating many a fluttering girlish 
313 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

heart in the audience. Fritz Schneckenberger, too, in 
his part of “leading lady,” won round after round of 
applause. 

The theatricals over, the whole college settled down 
to steady work for the remaining two months of the 
college year. Men who had idled away their 'time in 
the previous months of the term now worked fran- 
tically to make up for lost time and to cram for the 
dreaded “exams.” 

In the senior class there was a marked improvement 
in the standing of at least four of the students. Blake, 
Hammond, Mitchell, and Ainslie showed a devotion 
to their studies, especially to German and mathematics, 
that was quite surprising. It was hard work to recover 
the lost ground, however, and sometimes Mitchell, 
after a “flunk” in mathematics, would look appre- 
hensively at the professor. Still, their work, on the 
whole, showed such a vast improvement on their pre- 
vious record that Herr Ludwig seemed satisfied. The 
professor was evidently keeping his promise. He made 
no allusion to the affair in Henderson’s room; and but 
for the fact that the quartet were in any case somewhat 
doubtful of winning their sheepskins — and that 
“conscience doth make cowards of us all” — they might 
have supposed he had indeed forgotten. 

At last the end of the term drew near. The exam- 
inations were over, and for the seniors only a few 
more days of college life remained. 

One evening, as the seniors were holding a class 
meeting, the college janitor tapped at the door and 
handed in a note to the president of the class. 

314 


COMEDY OF THE HERR PROFESSOR 


The note was as follows : — 

Herr Ludwig requests the presence of the Senior Class 

in B Hall at 7.30 prompt this evening. He will not detain 

them long, but begs the attendance of every member of the 
class. 

It was unanimously voted that the meeting adjourn 
until after the engagement with Professor Ludwig. 

As the seniors trooped up the stairs to B Hall, 

a few minutes later, they encountered many of the 
junior class on the stairway. Evidently the juniors 
had received a similar summons. 

The two classes, after some preliminary scufflings 
and jostlings, found seats in the hall, and in compara- 
tive quiet awaited the appearance of the Herr Profes- 
sor. 

Promptly as the clock struck the half hour, the little 
door at the back of the platform opened, and Herr 
Ludwig appeared. 

The professor, in spite of his small oddities, and his 
ready wrath at any luckless student who had too 
hopelessly “flunked” in a recitation, was a favorite 
with the boys. 

As the seniors now gazed at the well-known form and 
features of the little professor, they thought how, in 
a few more days, they would leave the old college, and 
their happy, careless student life would be forever a 
thing of the past. 

With one accord they began to clap, and the sound 
swelled and grew until the professor, standing in the 
middle of the platform, bowed in response to what 
might fairly be termed an ovation. At length he raised 
315 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

his hand. “Zhentlemen, zhentlemen,” he said, mildly 
and protestingly. The applause gradually subsided, 
and finally ceased, and presently the students, out of 
respect for the professor, became so quiet that you 
might have heard the fall of a feather. 

Then Herr Ludwig spoke: — 

“Zhentlemen, I haf asked you to meet me this 
efening because I haf a story to tell you. I could not 
tell you before; but in a few days our college year will 
end, and you, seniors, will go out from these old college 
walls, and will be with us no more.” 

He paused, and his glance wandered over the room, 
from the seniors, sitting in the front rows, to the 
juniors, farther back in the hall. 

Then he went on. “When the faculty decided that 
the Deutsche comedy should this year be given by 
the juniors, the seniors were not pleased. Some off 
them decided that the juniors should not gif the play, 
otf that they should not gif it with success. Four off the 
seniors, whether on their own responsibility, or as repre- 
sentatives off their class, I do not know — I nefer in- 
quired — went one night, ferry late on the night 
before the play wass to be gifen, to the room off one 
of the juniors. It wass a junior who wass to take a 
leading part in the play. They meant to kidnap him — 
to take him away — and to keep him a captif , so that 
the play without him could not be gifen.” 

The professor paused a moment. Blake and Ham- 
mond, who were sitting together, looked at each other. 
What did the professor mean by raking up that story 
and telling it to the two- classes? 

316 


COMEDY OF THE HERR PROFESSOR 

The professor went on and told how the four students 
of the senior class had forced their way into the 
junior’s room, and had made him a prisoner. “But I 
wass there!” he said. “I had gone to coach the player 
once more. I heard the seniors, I waited till I learned 
their plan, and then. I came before them.” 

Then followed an account of how the seniors had 
implored his leniency, and of the “bargain” he had 
made with them. 

“You will know presently why I haf told you this 
story; why I could not tell it before. Zhentlemen, I 
will beg you to keep ferry still. I will ask your atten- 
tion but a few moments longer.” 

He stepped quickly to a table that stood on the 
platform, concealed from the view of the students by a 
large screen that was placed before it. 

What the professor did they could not see. In about 
a minute he reappeared. But what a transformation ! 
The bent form had become erect; the stubbly beard, 
the bushy eye-brows, the iron-rimmed spectacles were 
gone; the brown, wrinkled face had become fair and 
smooth; the long gray hair was the only thing that 
remained to remind them of the professor. 

Carelessly taking off the wig, and stuffing it into 
his pocket, Fritz Schneckenberger , junior, faced the 
audience. With a low bow, he said, still in the accents 
of the German professor, “Zhentlemen, does it need 
any further explanation?” 

For a moment the silence of utter astonishment 
reigned in the hall. 

Then, as the truth dawned on the minds of the 
317 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


students, the juniors began to clap, and in a moment 
more the applause grew even louder than that which 
had greeted the first appearance of the pseudo-pro- 
fessor. A few hisses and jeers and catcalls from the 
seniors were soon drowned in the general roar of ap- 
proval, for the majority of the seniors, forced to admit 
that they had been fairly and squarely trapped by the 
little junior, had joined in generous applause. 

Suddenly Schneckenberger’s expression of modest 
triumph changed to one of almost ludicrous embar- 
rassment as his gaze- became riveted on something or 
someone near the back of the hall. 

The students turning around to see what had caused 
the change discovered that the real Professor Ludwig 
had entered the hall, and was advancing up the aisle. 
There fell a sudden silence as the professor, slowly and 
with dignity, ascended the steps of the platform and 
turned to face the audience. 

Schneckenberger, although his face became a fiery 
red, courageously held his position, only retreating a 
step or two to one side, to give the Herr Professor the 
courtesy of the center of the stage. 

“Zhentlemen,” said the real Herr Ludwig — and it 
was a curious and comical tribute to Schneckenberger’s 
powers of imitation to note how exactly similar were 
the tones of the professor to those they had just been 
listening to — “ zhentlemen, hearing only a few mo- 
ments before the hour that Professor Ludwig was to 
meet the seniors and juniors in this hall at a half after 
sefen, I thought there must haf been some mistake, and 
I came up to see about it. As I stood in the doorway, 
318 


COMEDY OF THE HERR PROFESSOR 

I was surprised to see, as I thought, myself on the plat- 
form here. In utter astonishment I remained hidden 
behind the door, and I saw and heard all. 

“Herr Schneckenberger” — turning to the junior, 
who was still blushing furiously — “Herr Schnecken- 
berger, I congratulate you. Not only on your skill as 
an actor, but” — pausing to survey the seniors — “but 
on hafing accomplished more in one efening to im- 
profe the zeal in study off some off my pupils than I 
had been able to accomplish with many expostulations 
through the whole term. I had noticed a marked im- 
profement in the work off some off my students in 
the last two months, but I knew not what had caused 
the miracle! Herr Professor Schneckenberger, I con- 
gratulate you!” 

He turnecT and shook hands with Schneckenberger; 
while once again the applause broke out, followed by 
the class yell of the jubilant juniors. This was re- 
sponded to by the class yell of the seniors; and then 
seniors and juniors united in cheers for the college, for 
Professor Ludwig, and finally for “ Herr Baby-Pro- 
fessor Schneckenberger-Ludwig ! ” 

Thus ended the comedy of the Herr Professor, in 
which Fritz Schneckenberger played the leading role. 


MISS BIDDLE OF BRYN MAWR 

By Josephine Dodge Daslcam 

I SHOULD N’T have minded so much,” explained 
Katherine, dolefully, and not without the suspicion 
of a sob, “if it was n’t that I’d asked Miss Hartwell 
and Miss Ackley ! I shall die of embarrassment — I 
shall! Oh, why couldn’t Henrietta Biddle have 
waited a week before she went to Europe?” 

Her roommate, Miss Grace Farwell, sank -despair- 
ingly on the pile of red floor-cushions under the win- 
dow. “Oh, Kitten! you didn’t ask them? Not 
really?” she gasped, staring incredulously at the 
tangled head that peered over the screen behind which 
Katherine was splashily conducting her toilet opera- 
tions. 

“But I did! I think they’re simply grand, especially 
Miss Hartwell, and I’ll never have any chance of 
meeting her, I suppose, and I thought this was a 
beautiful one. So I met her yesterday on the campus, 
and I walked up to her — I was horribly scared, but 
I don’t think I showed it — and, said I, ‘Oh, Miss 
Hartwell, you don’t know me, of course, but I’m 
Miss Sewall, ’9-, and I know Henrietta Biddle of Bryn 
Mawr, and she’s coming to see me for two or three 
days, and I’m going to make a little tea for her — 
very informal — and I ’ ve heard her speak of you and 
320 


MISS BIDDLE OF BRYN MAWR 

Miss Ackley as about the only girls she knew here, 
and I ’d love to have you meet Jier again !’” 

Miss Farwell laughed hysterically. “And did she 
accept ?” she inquired. 

Katherine wiped her face for the third time excitedly. 
“Oh, yes! She was as sweet as peaches and cream! 
‘I shall be charmed to meet Miss Biddle again, and in 
your room, Miss Sewall,’ she said, ‘and shall I bring 
Miss Ackley?’ Oh, Grace, she’s lovely! She is the 
most — ” 

“Yes, I’ve no doubt,” interrupted Miss Farwell 
cynically; “all the handsome seniors are. But what are 
you going to say to her to-day?” 

Katherine buried her yellow head in the towel. 
“I don’t know! Oh, Grace! I don’t know,” she 
mourned. “And they say the freshmen are getting so 
uppish, anyway, and if we carry it off well, and just 
make a joke of it, they ’ll think we ’re awfully f-f -fresh ! ” 
Here words failed her, and she leaned heavily on the 
screen, which, as it was old and probably resented hav- 
ing been sold third-hand at a second-hand price, col- 
lapsed weakly, dragging with it the Bodenhausen 
madonna, a silver rack of photographs, and a Gibson 
Girl drawn in very black ink on a very white ground. 

“And if we are apologetic and meek,” continued Miss 
Farwell, easily, apparently undisturbed by the confu- 
sion consequent to the downfall of a piece of furniture 
known to be somewhat erratic, “they’ll laugh at us or 
be bored. We shall be known as the freshmen who in- 
vite seniors and faculty and town people to meet — 
nobody at all! A pretty reputation!” 

321 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“But, Grace, we could n’t help it. Such things will 
happen!” Katherine was pinning the Gibson Girl to the 
wall, in bold defiance of the matron’s known views on 
that subject. 

“Yes, of course. But they must n’t happen to fresh- 
men!” her roommate returned sententiously. “How 
many faculty did you ask?” 

“I asked Miss Parker, because she fitted Henrietta 
for college, at Archer Hall; and I asked Miss Williams, 
because she knows Henrietta’s mother — oh! Miss 
Williams will freeze me to death when she comes here 
and sees just us; and I asked Miss Dodge, because 
she knows a lot of Bryn Mawr people. Then Mrs. 
Patton on Elm Street was a school friend of Mrs. 
Biddle’s, and — oh ! Grace, I can't manage them alone ! 
Let’s tell them not to come!” 

“And what shall we do with the sandwiches? And 
the little cakes? And the lemons that I borrowed? 
And that pint of extra thick cream?” Miss Farwell 
checked off these interesting items on her fingers, and 
kicked the floor-cushions to point the question. 

“Oh! I don’t know! Is n’t there any chance — ” 

“No, goosey, there is n’t. See here!” Grace pulled 
down a letter with a special delivery stamp from the 
desk above her head, and read with emphasis : — 

Dear Kitten, — 

Just a line to say that Aunt Mary has sent for me at three 
days’ notice to go to Paris with her for a year. It’s now or 
never, you know, and I’ve left the college, and will come 
back to graduate with ’9-. So sorry I can’t see you before I 
go. Had looked forward to a very interesting time, renewing 
my own freshman days, and all that. Please send my blue 
322 


MISS BIDDLE OF BRYN MAWR 

cloth suit right on to Philadelphia, C.O.D., when it conies 
to you. I hope you had n’t gotten anything up for me. 

With much love, 

Henrietta Biddle. 

Bvrn Mawr, March 5. 

“I don’t think there ’s much chance, my dear.” 

“No,” said Katherine sadly, and with a final pat 
administered to the screen, which still wobbled un- 
steadily. “No, I suppose there isn’t. And it’s eleven 
o’clock. They ’ll be here at four! Oh ! and I asked that 
pretty junior, Miss Pratt, you know. Henrietta knew 
her sister, she was in ’8-.” 

“Ah!” returned Miss Farwell, with a suspicious 
sweetness. “Why didn’t you ask a few more, Kath- 
erine, dear? What with the list we made out together 
and these last extra ones — ” 

“But I thought there wasn’t any use having the 
largest double room in the house, if we could n’t have 
a decent-sized party in it ! And think of all those darl- 
ing, thin little sandwiches! Oh, well, we might just 
as well be sensible and carry the thing through, Gracie ! 
But I am just as afraid as I can be : I tell you that. And 
Miss Williams will freeze me stiff.” The yellow hair 
was snugly braided and wound around by now, and a 
neat though worried maiden sat on the couch and 
punched the Harvard pillow reflectively. 

“Never mind her, Kitten, but just go ahead. You 
know Caroline Wilde said it was all right to ask her 
if she was Miss Biddle’s mother’s friend, and there 
was n’t time to take her all around, and you know 
how nice Miss Parker was about it. We can’t help it, 
323 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


as you say, and we ’ll go and get the flowers as we 
meant to. Have you anything this hour?” 

With her roommate to back her, to quote the young 
lady herself, Miss Sewall felt equal to almost any social 
function. Terrifying as her position appeared — and 
strangely enough, the seniors appalled her far more 
than the faculty — there was yet a certain excitement 
in the situation. 

What should she say to them? Would they be kind 
about it, or would they all turn around and go home? 
Would they think — 

“Oh, nonsense!” interrupted Grace the practical 
as these doubts were thrust upon her. “If they’re 
ladies, as I suppose they are, of course they’ll stay 
and make it just as pleasant for us as they can. 
They’ll see how it is. Think what we’d do, ourselves, 
you know!” 

They went down the single, long street, with the 
shops on either side, a red-capped, golf-caped pair of 
friends, like nine hundred other girls, yet different 
from them all. And they chattered of Livy and little 
cakes and trigonometry and pleated shirtwaists and 
basketball and fortnightly themes like all the others, 
but in their little way they were very social heroines, 
setting their teeth to carry by storm a position that 
many another woman would have found doubtful. 

They stopped at a little bakery, well down the street, 
to order some rolls for the girl across the hall from 
them, who had planned to breakfast in luxury and alone 
on chocolate and grapefruit the next morning. “Miss 
Carter, 24 Washburn,” said Grace carelessly, when 
324 


MISS BIDDLE OF BRYN MAWR 

Katherine whispered, “Look at her! Is n’t that funny? 
Why, Grace, just see her!” 

“See who — whom, I mean? (Only I hate to say 
‘whom.’) Who is it, Kitten?” 

Katherine was staring at the clerk, a tall, handsome 
girl, with masses of heavy black hair and an erect figure. 
As she went down to the back of the shop again, 
Katherine’s eyes followed her closely. 

“ It ’s that girl that used to be in the Candy Kitchen 
— don’t you remember? I told you then that she 
looked so much like my friend Miss Biddle. And then 
the Candy Kitchen failed, and I suppose she came here. 
And she ’s just Henrietta’s height, too. You know 
Henrietta stands very straight and frowns a little, and 
so did this girl when you gave Alice’s number, and 
said ‘Thirty-four or twenty-four?’ Is n’t it funny that 
we should see her now? Oh, dear! If only she 
were Henrietta ! ” 

Grace stared at the case of domestic bread and 
breathed quickly. “Does she really look like her, 
Kitten?” she said. 

“Oh, yes, indeed. It’s quite striking. Henrietta’s 
quite a type, you know — nothing unusual, only very 
dark and tall and all that. Of course there are differ- 
ences, though.” 

“What differences?” said Grace, still looking intently 
at the domestic bread. 

“Oh, Henrietta’s eyes are brown, and this girl’s are 
black. And Henrietta has n’t any dimple, and her 
hands are prettier. And Henrietta’s waist is n’t so 
small, and she has n’t nearly so much hair, I should 
325 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

say. But then, I have n’t seen her for a year, and 
probably there’s a greater difference than I think.” 

“How long is it since those seniors and the faculty 
saw Henrietta?” said Grace, staring now at a row of 
layer chocolate cakes. 

Her roommate started. “Why — why, Grace, what 
do you mean? It’s two years, Henrietta wrote, I think. 
And Miss Parker and Miss Williams have n’t seen her 
for much longer than that. But — but — you don’t 
mean anything, Grace?” 

Grace faced her suddenly. “Yes,” she said, “I do. 
You may think that because I just go right along with 
this thing, I don’t care at all. But I do. I’m aw- 
fully scared. I hate to think of that Miss Ackley 
lifting her eyebrows — the way she will ! And Miss 
Hartwell said once when somebody asked if she knew 
Judge Farwell’s daughter, ‘ Oh, dear me — I suppose 
so ! And everybody else in her class — theoretically ! 
But practically I rarely observe them!’ Ugh! She’ll 
observe me to-day, I hope!” 

“Yes, dear, I suppose she will. And me too. 
But—” 

“Oh, yes! But if nobody knows how Miss Biddle 
looks, and she was going to stay at the hotel, anyway, 
and it would only be for two hours, and everything 
would be so simple.” 

Katherine’s cheeks grew very red and her breath 
came fast. “But should we dare? Would she be will- 
ing? Would it be — ” 

“Oh, my dear, it’s only a courtesy! And every- 
body will think it’s all right, and the thing will go 
326 


MISS BIDDLE OF BRYN MAWR 

beautifully, and Miss Biddle, if she has any sense of 
humor — ” 

“Yes, indeed! Henrietta would only be amused — 
oh, so amused! And it would be such a heavenly relief 
after all the worry. We could send her off on the next 
train — Henrietta, you know — and dress makes such 
a difference in a girl!” 

“And I think she would if we asked her just as a 
favor — it would n’t be a question of money ! Oh, 
Katherine! I could cry for joy if she would!” 

“She’d like to, if she has any fun in her — it would 
be a game with some point to it! And will you ask 
her, or shall I?” 

They were half in joke and half in earnest: it was a 
real crisis to them. They were only freshmen, and they 
had invited the seniors and the faculty. And two of the 
most prominent seniors ! Whom they had n’t known 
at all! They had a sense of humor, but they were 
proud, too, and they had a woman’s horror of an un- 
successful social function. They felt that they were 
doomed to endless joking at the hands of the whole col- 
lege, and this apprehension, though probably exag- 
gerated, nerved them to their coup d'etat. 

Grace walked down the shop. “I will ask her,” she 
said. 

Katherine stood with her back turned and tried 
not to hear. Suppose the girl should be insulted? 
Suppose she should be afraid? Now that there was a 
faint hope of success, she realized how frightened and 
discouraged she had been. For it would be a success, 
she saw that. Nobody would have had Miss Biddle to 
327 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


talk with for more than a few minutes anyhow, they 
had asked such a crowd. And yet she would have 
been the center of the whole affair. 

“ Katherine, ” said a voice behind her, “let me in- 
troduce Miss Brooks, who has consented to help us!” 

Katherine held out her hands to the girl. “Oh, thank 
you! thank you!” she said. 

The girl laughed. “I think it’s queer,” she said, 
“but if you are in such a fix, I’d just as lief help you 
as not. Only I shall give you away — I shan’t know 
what to say.” 

Grace glanced at Katherine. Then she proved her 
right to all the praise she afterwards accepted from 
her grateful roommate. “That will be very easy,” 
she said sweetly. “Miss Biddle, whom you will — will 
represent, speaks very rarely : she ’s not at all talka- 
tive!” 

Katherine gasped. “Oh, no!” she said eagerly, 
“she’s very statuesque, you know, and keeps very 
still and straight, and just looks in your eyes and 
makes you think she’s talking. She says ‘Really?’ 
and ‘Fancy, now!’ and ‘I expect you’re very jolly 
here,’ and then she smiles. You could do that.” 

“Yes, I could do that,” said the girl. 

“Can you come to the hotel right after dinner?” 
said Grace, competently, “and we’ll cram you for an 
hour or so on Miss Biddle’s affairs.” 

The girl laughed. “Why, yes,” she said, “I guess 
I can get off.” 

So they left her smiling at them from the domestic 
bread, and at two o’clock they carried Miss Henrietta 


MISS BIDDLE OF BRYN MAWR 

Biddle’s dress-suit case to the hotel and took Miss 
Brooks to her room. And they set her on a sofa and 
told her what they knew of her alma mater and her 
relatives and her character generally. And she amazed 
them by a very comprehensive grasp of the whole 
affair and an aptitude for mimicry that would have 
gotten her a star part in the senior dramatics. With a 
few corrections she spoke very good English, and “as 
she’d only have to answer questions, anyhow, she 
need n’t talk long at a time,” they told each other. 

She put up her heavy hair in a twisted crown on 
her head, and they put the blue cloth gown on her, and 
covered the place in the front, where it did n’t fit, with 
a beautiful fichu that Henrietta had apparently been 
led of Providence to tuck into the dress-suit case. 
And she rode up in a carriage with them, very much 
excited, but with a beautiful color and glowing eyes, 
and a smile that brought out the dimple that Henrietta 
never had. 

They showed her the room and the sandwiches and 
the tea, and they got into their clothes, not speaking, 
except when a great box with three bunches of English 
violets was left at the door with Grace’s card. Then 
Katherine said, “You dear thing!” And Miss Brooks 
smiled as they pinned hers on and said softly, “Fancy, 
now!” 

And then they were n’t afraid for her any more. 

When the pretty Miss Pratt came, a little after four, 
with Miss Williams, she smiled with pleasure at the 
room, all flowers and tea and well-dressed girls, with a 
tall, handsome brunette in a blue gown with a beauti- 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

ful lace bib smiling gently on a crowd of worshipers, 
and saying little soft sentences that meant anything 
that was polite and self-possessed. 

Close by her was her friend, Miss Sewall, of the 
freshman class, who sweetly answered half the ques- 
tions about Bryn Mawr, that Miss Biddle could n’t 
find time to answer, and steered people away who 
insisted on talking with her too long. Miss Farwell, 
also of the freshman class, assisted her roommate in 
receiving, and passed many kinds of pleasant food, 
laughing a great deal at what everybody said, and 
chatting amicably and unabashed with the two seniors 
of honor, who openly raved over Miss Biddle of 
Bryn Mawr. 

As soon as Katherine had said, “ May I present Miss 
Hartwell — Miss Ackley?” they took their stand by 
the stately stranger and talked to her as much as was 
consistent with propriety. 

“Isn’t she perfectly charming!” they said to Miss 
Parker, and “Yes, indeed,” replied that lady, “I 
should have known Netta anywhere. She is just what 
I thought she would be!” 

And Miss Williams, far from freezing the pretty 
hostess, patted her shoulder kindly. “Henrietta is 
quite worth coming to see,” she said with her best and 
most exquisite manner. “I have heard of the Bryn 
Mawr style, and now I am convinced. I wish all our 
girls had such dignity — such a feeling for the right 
word!” 

And they had the grace to blush. They knew who 
had taught Henrietta Biddle Brooks that right word! 
330 


MISS BIDDLE OF BRYN MAWR 

At six o’clock Miss Biddle had to take the Philadel- 
phia express. She had only stopped over for the tea. 
And so the girls of the house could not admire her over 
the supper table. But they probably appreciated her 
more. For after all, as they decided in talking her over 
later, it was n’t so much what she said, as the way 
she looked when she said it! 

But only a dress-suit case marked H. L. B. took the 
Philadelphia express that night, and a tall, red-cheeked 
girl in a mussy, checked suit left the hotel with a 
bunch of violets in her hand and a reminiscent smile on 
her lips. 

“We simply can’t thank you; we have n’t any words. 
You’ve helped us give the nicest party two freshmen 
ever gave, if it is any pleasure to you to know that,” 
said Katherine. “And now you’re only not to speak 
of it.” 

“Oh, no; I shan’t speak of it,” said the girl. “You 
need n’t be afraid. Nobody that I’d tell would believe 
me, very much, anyhow. I ’m glad I could help you, 
and I had a lovely time — lovely!” 

She smiled at them: the slow, sweet smile of Hen- 
rietta Biddle, late of Bryn Mawr. “You college ladies 
are certainly queer — but you’re smart!” said Miss 
Brooks of the bakery. 


HANDY ANDY GOES TO THE 
POST OFFICE 

By Samuel Lover 

W HEN Andy grew up to be what in country par- 
lance is called “a brave lump of a boy,” his 
mother thought he was old enough to do something 
for himself; so she took him one day along with her to 
the Squire’s, and waited outside the door, loitering up 
and down the yard behind the house, among a crowd of 
beggars and great lazy dogs, that were thrusting their 
heads into every iron pot that stood outside the kitchen 
door, until chance might give her “ a sight o’ the Squire 
afore he wint out, or afore he wint in”; and after spend- 
ing her entire day in this idle way, at last the Squire 
made his appearance, and Judy presented her son, who 
kept scraping his foot, and pulling his forelock, that stuck 
out like a piece of ragged thatch from his forehead, mak- 
ing his obeisance to the Squire, while his mother was 
sounding his praises for being the “handiest craythur 
alive — and so willin’ — nothin’ comes wrong to him.” 

“I suppose the English of all this is, you want me to 
take him?” said the Squire. 

“Troth, an’ your honor, that’s just it — if your 
honor would be plazed.” 

“What can he do?” 

“Anything, your honor.” 

332 


HANDY ANDY GOES TO POST OFFICE 

“That means nothing , I suppose,” said the Squire. 

“Oh, no, sir. Everything, I mane, that you would 
desire him to do.” 

To every one of these assurances on his mother’s 
part Andy made a bow and a scrape. 

“Can he take care of horses?” 

“The best of care, sir,” said the mother. 

“Let him come, then, and help in the stables, and 
we’ll see what he can do.” 

“May the Lord — ” 

“That’ll do — there, now go.” 

“Oh, sure, but I ’ll pray for you, and — ” 

“Will you go?” 

“And may the angels make your honor’s bed this 
blessed night, I pray.” 

“If you don’t go, your son shan’t come.” 

Judy and her hopeful boy turned to the right about 
in double-quick time, and hurried down the avenue. 

The next day Andy was duly installed into his office 
of stable helper, and, as he was a good rider, he was 
soon made whipper-in to the hounds, for there was a 
want of such a functionary in the establishment; and 
Andy’s boldness in this capacity soon made him a 
favorite with the Squire, who was one of those rollicking 
boys on the pattern of the old school, who scorned the 
attentions of a regular valet, and let anyone that 
chance threw in his way bring him his boots, or his 
hot water for shaving, or brush his coat, whenever 
it was brushed. One morning Andy, who was very 
often the attendant on such occasions, came to his 
room with hot water. He tapped at the door. 

333 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“Who ’s that?” said the Squire, who had just risen, 
and did not know but it might be one of the women 
servants. 

“It ’s me, sir.” 

“Oh — Andy! Come in.” 

“Here ’s the hot water, sir,” said Andy, bearing an 
enormous tin can. 

“Why, what brings that enormous tin can here? 
You might as well bring the stable bucket.” 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Andy, retreating. In 
two minutes more Andy came back, and, tapping at 
the door, put in his head cautiously, and said, “The 
maids in the kitchen, your honor, says there ’s not so 
much hot water ready.” 

“Did I not see it a moment since in your hand?” 

“Yes, sir; but that ’s not the full o’ the stable 
bucket.” 

“Go along, you stupid thief! and get me some hot 
water directly.” 

“Will the can do, sir?” 

“Aye, anything, so you make haste.” 

Off posted Andy, and back he came with the can. 

“Where ’ll I put it, sir?” 

“Throw this out,” said the Squire, handing Andy a 
jug containing some cold water, meaning the jug to be 
replenished with the hot. 

Andy took the jug, and the window of the room 
being open, he very deliberately threw the jug out. 
The Squire stared with wonder, and at last said : — 

“What did you do that for?” 

“Sure you towld me to throw it out, sir.” 

334 


HANDY ANDY GOES TO POST OFFICE 

“Go out of this, you thick-headed villain !” said the 
Squire, throwing his boots at Andy’s head. Andy 
retreated, and thought himself a very ill-used person. 

Though Andy’s regular business was “whipper-in,” 
yet he was liable to be called on for the performance of 
various other duties: he sometimes attended at table 
when the number of guests required that all the subs 
should be put in requisition, or rode on some distant 
errand for the “mistress,” or drove out the nurse and 
children on the jaunting-car; and many were the 
mistakes, delays, or accidents arising from Handy 
Andy’s interference in such matters; but as they were 
seldom serious, and generally laughable, they never 
cost him the loss of his place, or the Squire’s favor, who 
rather enjoyed Andy’s blunders. 

The first time Andy was admitted into the mysteries 
of the dining room, great was his wonder. The butler 
took him in to give him some previous instructions, and 
Andy was so lost in admiration at the sight of the 
assembled glass and plate, that he stood with his mouth 
and eyes wide open, and scarcely heard a word that was 
said to him. After the head man had been dinning his 
instructions into him for some time, he said he might 
go, until his attendance was required. But Andy moved 
not; he stood with his eyes fixed by a sort of fascination 
on some object that seemed to rivet them with the 
same unaccountable influence which the rattlesnake 
exercises over its victim. 

“What are you looking at?” said the butler. 

“Them things,” said Andy, pointing to some silver 
forks. 


335 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“Is it the forks?” said the butler. 

“Oh, no, sir! I know what forks is very well; but I 
never seen them things afore.” 

“What things do you mean?” 

“These things, sir,” said Andy, taking up one of the 
silver forks and turning it round and round in his 
hand in utter astonishment, while the butler grinned 
at his ignorance, and enjoyed his own superior knowl- 
edge. 

“Well!” said Andy, after a long pause, “if ever I 
seen a silver spoon split that way before!” 

The butler gave a horse laugh, and made a standing 
joke of Andy’s split spoon; but time and experience 
made Andy less impressed with wonder at the show of 
plate and glass, and the split spoons became familiar 
as “household words” to him; yet still there were 
things in the duties of table attendance beyond Andy’s 
comprehension — he used to hand cold plates for fish, 
and hot plates for jelly, etc. But one day he was 
thrown off his center in a remarkable degree by a bottle 
of soda water. 

It was when that combustible was first introduced 
into Ireland as a dinner beverage that the occurrence 
took place, and Andy had the luck to be the person to 
whom a gentleman applied for some soda water. 

“Sir?” said Andy. 

“Soda water,” said the guest, in that subdued tone 
in which people are apt to name their wants at a dinner 
table. Andy went to the butler. “ Mr. Morgan, there ’s 
a gintleman — ” 

“Let me alone, will you?” said Mr. Morgan. 

336 


HANDY ANDY GOES TO POST OFFICE 

Andy maneuvered round him a little longer, and 
again essayed to be heard. 

“Mr. Morgan!” 

“Don’t you see I ’m as busy as I can be? Can’t you 
do it yourself?” 

“I dunna what he wants.” 

“Well, go and ax him,” said Mr. Morgan. 

Andy went off as he was bidden, and came behind the 
gentleman’s chair with, “I beg your pardon, sir.” 

“Well!” said the gentleman. 

“I beg your pardon, sir; but what ’s this you axed 
me for?” 

“Soda water.” 

“What, sir?” 

“Soda water; but perhaps you have not any.” 

“Oh, there ’s plenty in the house, sir! Would you 
like it hot, sir? ” 

The gentleman laughed, and supposing the new 
fashion was not understood in the present company, 
said, “Never mind.” 

But Andy was too anxious to please to be so satisfied, 
and again applied to Mr. Morgan. 

“Sir!” said he. 

“Bad luck to you! can’t you let me alone? ” 

“ There ’s a gintleman wants some soap and wather.” 

“Some what?” 

“Soap and wather, sir.” 

“Soda wather you mane. You ’ll get it under the 
sideboard.” 

“Is it in the can, sir?” 

“The curse o’ Crum’ll on you! in the bottles.” 

337 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“Is this it, sir? ” said Andy, producing a bottle of ale. 

“No, bad cess to you! the little bottles.” 

“Is it the little bottles with no bottoms, sir?” 

“I wish you wor in the bottom o’ the say!” said Mr. 
Morgan, who was fuming and puffing, and rubbing 
down his face with a napkin, as he was hurrying to all 
quarters of the room, or, as Andy said, in praising his 
activity, that he was “like bad luck — everywhere.” 

“There they are!” said Mr. Morgan at last. 

“Oh, them bottles that won’t stand,” said Andy; 
“sure them ’s what I said, with no bottoms to them. 
How ’ll I open it? it ’s tied down.” 

“Cut the cord, you fool!” 

Andy did as he was desired; and he happened at the 
time to hold the bottle of soda water on a level with the 
candles that shed light over the festive board from a 
large silver branch, and the moment he made the incision, 
bang went the bottle of soda, knocking out two of the 
lights with the projected cork, which, performing its 
parabola the length of the room, struck the Squire him- 
self in the eye at the foot of the table, while the hostess 
at the head had a cold bath down her back. Andy, 
when he saw the soda water jumping out of the bottle, 
held it from him at arm’s length; every fizz it made, 
exclaiming, “Ow! — ow! — ow!” and at last, when the 
bottle was empty, he roared out, “It’s all gone!” 

Great was the commotion; few could resist laughter, 
except the ladies, who all looked at their gowns, not 
liking the mixture of satin and soda water. The extin- 
guished candles were relighted — the Squire got his 
eye open again — and the next time he perceived the 
338 


HANDY ANDY GOES TO POST OFFICE 

butler sufficiently near to speak to him, he said in a low 
and hurried tone of deep anger, while he knit his brow, 
“Send that fellow out of the room!” but, within the 
same instant, resumed his former smile, that beamed 
on all around as if nothing had happened. 

Andy was expelled from th esalle a manger in disgrace, 
and for days kept out of the master’s and mistress’s way : 
in the meantime the butler made a good story of the 
thing in the servants’ hall; and, when he held up Andy’s 
ignorance to ridicule, by telling how he asked for “soap 
and water,” Andy was given the name of “Suds,” and 
was called by no other for months after. 

But, though Andy’s functions in the interior were sus- 
pended, his services in out-of-door affairs were occasion- 
ally put in requisition. But here his evil genius still 
haunted him, and he put his foot in a piece of business 
his master sent him upon one day, which was so simple 
as to defy almost the chance of Andy making any mis- 
take about it; but Andy was very ingenious in his own 
particular line. 

“Ride into the town and see if there ’s a letter for 
me,” said the Squire one day to our hero. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You know where to go?” 

“To the town, sir.” 

“But do you know where to go in the town?” 

“No, sir.” 

“And why don’t you ask, you stupid thief?” 

“Sure I’d find out, sir.” 

“Did n’t I often tell you to ask what you ’re to do, 
when you don’t know? ” 


339 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“Yes, sir.” 

“And why don’t you?” 

“I don’t like to be throublesome, sir.” 

“Confound you!” said the Squire; though he could 
not help laughing at Andy’s excuse for remaining in 
ignorance. 

“Well,” continued he, “go to the post office. You 
know the post office, I suppose?” 

“Yes, sir, where they sell gunpowder.” 

“You ’re right for once,” said the Squire; for his 
Majesty’s postmaster was the person who had the 
privilege of dealing in the aforesaid combustible. “Go 
then to the post office and ask for a letter for me. 
Remember — not gunpowder, but a letter.” 

“Yis, sir,” said Andy, who got astride of his hack 
and trotted away to the post office. On arriving at the 
shop of the postmaster (for that person carried on a 
brisk trade in groceries, gimlets, broadcloth, and linen 
drapery) Andy presented himself at the counter and 
said, “I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.” 

“Who do you want it for?” said the postmaster, in a 
tone which Andy considered an aggression upon the 
sacredness of private life. 

So Andy thought the coolest contempt he could 
throw upon the prying impertinence of the postmaster 
was to repeat his question. 

“I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.” 

“And who do you want it for?” repeated the post- 
master. 

“What ’s that to you?” said Andy. 

The postmaster, laughing at his simplicity, told him 
340 


HANDY ANDY GOES TO POST OFFICE 

he could not tell what letter to give him unless he told 
him the direction. 

“The directions I got was to get a letther here — 
that ’s the directions.” 

“Who gave you those directions?” 

“The masther.” 

“And who ’s your master?” 

“What consarn is that o’ yours?” 

“Why, you stupid rascal! if you don’t tell me his 
name, how can I give you a letter? ” 

“You could give it if you liked: but you ’re fond of 
axin’ impident questions, bekase you think I ’m 
simple.” 

“Go along out o’ this! Your master must be as great 
a goose as yourself, to send such a messenger.” 

“Bad luck to your impidence,” said Andy; “is it 
Squire Egan you dare to say goose to?” 

“Oh, Squire Egan ’s your master, then?” 

“Yes, have you anything to say agin it?” 

“Only that I never saw you before.” 

“Faith, then, you ’ll never see me agin if I have my 
own consint.” 

“I won’t give you any letter for the Squire, unless I 
know you ’re his servant. Is there any one in the town 
knows you?” 

“Plenty,” said Andy, “it ’s not everyone is as ignor- 
ant as you.” 

Just at this moment a person to whom Andy was 
known entered the house, who vouched to the post- 
master that he might give Andy the Squire’s letter. 
“Have you one for me?” 


341 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“Yes, sir,” said the postmaster, producing one — 
“fourpence.” 

The gentleman paid the fourpence postage and left 
the shop with his letter. 

“Here *s a letter for the Squire,” said the postmaster; 
“you ’ve to pay me elevenpence postage.” 

“What ’ud I pay elevenpence for?” 

“For postage.” 

“ Did n’t I see you give Mr. Durfy a letther for four- 
pence this minit, and a bigger letther than this? And 
now you want me to pay elevenpence for this scrap of 
a thing. Do you think I ’m a fool?” 

“No; but I ’m sure of it,” said the postmaster. 

“Well, you ’re welkum to be sure, sure — but don’t 
be delayin’ me now: here ’s fourpence for you, and gi’ 
me the letther.” 

“Go along, you stupid thief!” said the postmaster, 
taking up the letter, and going to serve a customer with 
a mouse trap. While this person and many others 
were served, Andy lounged up and down the shop, every 
now and then putting in his head in the middle of the 
customers and saying, “Will you gi’ me the letther?” 

He waited for above half an hour, in defiance of the 
anathemas of the postmaster, and at last left, when he 
found it impossible to get common justice for his master, 
which he thought he deserved as well as another man; 
for, under this impression, Andy determined to give 
no more than the fourpence. 

The Squire in the meantime was getting impatient 
for his return, and when Andy made his appearance, 
asked if there was a letter for him. 

342 


HANDY ANDY GOES TO POST OFFICE 

“There is, sir,” said Andy. 

“Then give it to me.” 

“I have n’t it, sir.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He would n’t give it to me, sir.” 

“Who would n’t give it you?” 

“That owld chate beyant in the town — wanting to 
charge double for it.” 

“ Maybe it ’s a double letter. Why the devil did n’t 
you pay what he asked, sir? ” 

“Arrah, sir, why should I let you be chated? It’s 
not a double letther at all: not above half the size o’ 
one Mr. Durfy got before my face for fourpence.” 

“You ’ll provoke me to break your neck some day, 
you vagabond! Ride back for your life, you omadhaun; 
and pay whatever he asks, and get me the letter.” 

“Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin’ them before my 
face for fourpence apiece.” 

“Go back, you scoundrel! or I ’ll horsewhip you; 
and if you ’re longer than an hour, I ’ll have you ducked 
in the horse pond!” 

Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post 
office. When he arrived, two other persons were getting 
letters, and the postmaster was selecting the epistles 
for each, from a large parcel that lay before him on the 
counter; at the same time many shop customers were 
waiting to be served. 

“I ’m come for that letther, said Andy.” 

“I ’ll attend to you by and by.” 

“The masther ’s in a hurry.” 

“Let him wait till his hurry ’s over.” 

343 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“He ’ll murther me if I ’m not back soon.” 

“I ’m glad to hear it.” 

While the postmaster went on with such provoking 
answers to these appeals for dispatch, Andy’s eye 
caught the heap of letters which lay on the counter: so 
while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going 
forward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters 
from the heap, and, having effected that, waited pa- 
tiently enough till it was the great man’s pleasure to 
give him the missive directed to his master. 

Then did Andy bestride his hack, and in triumph at 
his trick on the postmaster, rattled along the road home- 
ward as fast as the beast could carry him. He came 
into the Squire’s presence, his face beaming with de- 
light, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his 
manner, quite unaccountable to his master, until he 
pulled forth his hand, which had been grubbing up his 
prizes from the bottom of his pocket; and holding three 
letters over his head, while he said, “Look at that!” 
he next slapped them down under his broad fist on the 
table before the Squire, saying : — 

“Well! if he did make me pay elevenpence, I brought 
your honor the worth o’ your money anyhow!” 


THE LOAN OF A GRIDIRON 


By Samuel Lover 



CERTAIN old gentleman in the west of Ireland, 


whose love of the ridiculous quite equaled his 
taste for claret and fox-hunting, was wont, upon certain 
festive occasions, when opportunity offered, to amuse 
his friends by drawing out one of his servants, who was 
exceedingly fond of what he termed his “thravels,” 
and in whom a good deal of whim, some queer stories, 
and perhaps, more than all, long and faithful services, 
had established a right of loquacity. He was one of 
those few trusty and privileged domestics who, if his 
master unheedingly uttered a rash thing in a fit of 
passion, would venture to set him right. If the squire 
said, “I ’ll turn that rascal off,” my friend Pat would 
say, “Throth you won’t, sir”; and Pat was always right, 
for if any altercation arose upon the subject matter 
in hand, he was sure to throw in some good reason, either 
from former service — general good conduct — or the 
delinquent’s “wife and childher,” that always turned 
the scale. 

But I am digressing: on such merry meetings as I 
have alluded to, the master, after making certain 
“approaches,” as a military man would say, as the 
preparatory steps in laying siege to some extravaganza 
of his servant, might perhaps assail Pat thus: “By 


345 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


the bye, Sir John (addressing a distinguished guest), 
Pat has a very curious story, which something you told 
me to-day reminds me of. You remember, Pat (turn- 
ing to the man, evidently pleased at the notice thus 
paid to himself) — you remember that queer adventure 
you had in France?” 

“Throth I do sir,” grins forth Pat. 

“What!” exclaims Sir John in feigned surprise, 
“was Pat ever in France?” 

“Indeed he was,” cries mine host; and Pat adds, 
“aye, and farther, plaze your honor.” 

“I assure you, Sir John,” continues mine host, “ Pat 
told me a story once that surprised me very much, 
respecting the ignorance of the French.” 

“ Indeed!” rejoins the baronet. “Really, I always 
supposed the French to be a most accomplished 
people.” 

“Throth then, they ’re not, sir,” interrupts Pat. 

“Oh, by no means,” adds mine host, shaking his 
head emphatically. 

“I believe, Pat, *t was when you were crossing the 
Atlantic?” says the master, turning to Pat with a 
seductive air, and leading into the “full and true 
account” — for Pat had thought fit to visit North 
America, for “a raison he had,” in the autumn of the 
year ninety-eight. 

“Yes, sir,” says Pat, “the broad Atlantic” — a 
favorite phrase of his, which he gave with a brogue as 
broad, almost, as the Atlantic itself. 

“It was the time I was lost in crassin’ the broad 
Atlantic, a cornin’ home,” began Pat, decoyed into the 
346 


THE LOAN OF A GRIDIRON 


recital; “whin the winds began to blow, and the sae 
to rowl, that you ’d think the Colleen dhas (that was 
her name) would not have a mast left but what would 
rowl out of her. 

“Well, sure enough, the masts went by the boord, at 
last, and the pumps were choak’d, and av coorse the 
wather gained an us; and throth, to be filled with 
wather is neither good for man or baste; and she was 
sinkin’ fast, settlin’ down, as the sailors call it; and 
faith I never was good at settlin’ down in my life, and 
I liked it then less nor ever; accordingly we prepared 
for the worst, and put out the boat, and got a sack o’ 
bishkets, and a cask o’ pork, and a kag of wather, 
and a thrifle o’ rum aboord, and any other little 
matthers we could think iv in the mortial hurry we 
wor in — and faith there was no time to be lost, for 
my darlint, the Colleen dhas , went down like a lump o’ 
lead afore we wor many sthrokes o’ the oar away from 
her. 

“Well, we dhrifted away all that night, and next 
mornin’ we put up a blanket an the ind av a pole as 
well as we could, and then we sailed iligant; for we 
darn’t show a stitch o’ canvass the night before, bekase 
it was blowin’ like bloody murther, savin’ your presence, 
and sure it ’s the wondher of the world we wor n’t 
swally’d alive by the ragin’ sae. 

“Well, away we wint, for more nor a week, and 
nothin’ before our two good-lookin’ eyes but the cano- 
phy iv heaven, and the wide ocean — the broad 
Atlantic — not a thing was to be seen but the sae and 
the sky; and though the sae and the sky is mighty 
347 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


purty things in themselves, throth they ’re no great 
things when you’ve nothin’ else to look at for a week 
together — and the barest rock in the world, so it was 
land, would be more welkim. And then, soon enough 
throth, our provisions began to run low, the bishkits, 
and the wather, and the rum — throth that was gone 
first of all — God help uz — and, oh ! it was thin that 
starvation began to stare us in the face — ‘ Oh, mur- 
ther, murther, captain darlint,’ says I, ‘I wish we could 
see land anywhere,’ says I. 

“ ‘More power to your elbow, Paddy, my boy,’ says 
he, ‘for sitch a good wish, and throth it ’s myself wishes 
the same.’ 

“ ‘ Oh ! ’ says I, ‘ that it may plaze you, sweet queen iv 
heaven, supposin’ it was only a dissolute island,’ says 
I, ‘inhabited wid Turks, sure they wouldn’t be such 
bad Chrishthans as to refuse us a bit and a sup.’ 

“ ‘Whisht, whisht, Paddy,’ says the captain, ‘don’t 
be talkin’ bad of anyone,’ says he; ‘ you don’t know 
how soon you may want a good word put in for your- 
self, if you should be called to quarthers in th’ other 
world all of a suddint,’ says he. 

“ ‘Thrue for you, captain darlint,’ says I — I called 
him darlint, and made free wid him, you see, bekase 
disthress makes uz all equal — ‘thrue for you, captain 
jewel — God betune uz and harm, I owe no man any 
spite’ — and throth that was only thruth. Well, the 
last bishkit was sarved out, and the wather itself was 
all gone at last, and we passed the night mighty cowld 
— well, at the brake o’ day the sun riz most beautiful 
out o’ the waves, that was as bright as silver and as 
348 


THE LOAN OF A GRIDIRON 


clear as cryshtal. But it was only the more crule upon 
us, for we wor beginnin’ to feel terrible hungry; when 
all at wanst I thought I spied the land — I thought I 
felt my heart up in my throat in a minnit, and ‘Thunder 
an turf, captain,’ says I, Took to leeward/ says I. 

“ ‘What for?’ says he. 

I think I see the land/ says I. So he ups with his 
bring-’m-near (that ’s what the sailors call a spy glass, 
sir) and looks out, and, sure enough, it was. 

“ ‘Hurra!’ says he, ‘we ’re all right now; pull away, 
my boys/ says he. 

“ ‘Take care you ’re not mistaken,’ says I: ‘maybe 
it ’s only a fog bank, captain darlint,’ says I. 

“ ‘Oh, no/ says he, ‘it ’s the land in airnest/ 

“ ‘Oh, then, whereabouts in the wide world are we, 
captain?’ says I; ‘maybe it id be in Roosia, or Proosia, 
or the Garman Oceant,’ says I. 

“ ‘Tut, you fool,’ says he — for he had that consaited 
way wid him — thinkin’ himself cleverer nor any one 
else — ‘tut, you fool,’ says he, ‘that ’s France,’ says he. 

“ ‘Hare an ouns,’ says I, ‘do you tell me so? and 
how do you know it ’s France it is, captain dear? ’ 
says I. 

“ ‘Bekase this is the Bay o’ Bishky we ’re in now/ 
says he. 

“ ‘Throth I was thinkin’ so myself/ says I, ‘by the 
rowl it has; for I often heerd av it in regard of that 
same ’; and throth the likes av it I never seen before 
nor since, and, with the help o’ God, never will. 

“Well, with that, my heart began to grow light; and 
when I seen my life was safe, I began to grow twice 
349 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


hungrier than ever — so, says I, 4 Captain jewel, I wish 
we had a gridiron.’ 

44 4 Why then,’ says he, ‘thunder and turf,’ says he, 
‘what puts a gridiron into your head?’ 

“ ‘Bekase I ’m starvin’ with the hunger,’ says I. 

“ ‘And sure, bad luck to you,’ says he, ‘you could n’t 
ate a gridiron,’ says he, ‘ barrin’ you wor a pelican o’ 
the wilderness,’ says he. 

“ ‘Ate a gridiron!’ says I; ‘och, in throth I ’m not 
sich a gommach all out as that, anyhow. But sure, if 
we had a gridiron, we could dress a beef-stake,’ says I. 

“ ‘Arrah! but where ’s the beef-stake?’ says he. 

“ ‘Sure, could n’t we cut a slice off the pork?’ says I. 

“ ‘I never thought o’ that,’ says the captain. ‘You ’re 
a clever fellow, Paddy,’ says he, laughin’. 

“‘Oh, there’s many a thrue word said in joke,’ 
says I. 

“ ‘Thrue for you, Paddy,’ says he. 

“ ‘Well then,’ says I, ‘if you put me ashore there 
bey ant’ (for we were nearin’ the land all the time), 
‘and sure I can ax thim for to lind me the loan of a 
gridiron,’ says I. 

“ ‘You gommach,’ says he, ‘sure I towld you before 
that ’s France — and sure they ’re all furriners there,’ 
says the captain. 

“ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘and how do you know but I ’m as 
good a furriner myself as any o’ thim? ’ 

“ ‘What do you mane?’ says he. 

“ ‘I mane,’ says I, ‘what I towld you, that I ’m as 
good a furriner myself as any o’ thim.’ 

“ ‘Make me sinsible,’ says he. 

350 


THE LOAN OF A GRIDIRON 


“ ‘By dad, maybe that ’s more nor me, or greater nor 
me, could do,’ says I — and we all began to laugh at 
him, for I thought I ’d pay him off for his bit o’ consait 
about the Garman Oceant. 

“ ‘Lave aff your humbuggin’,’ says he, ‘I bid you, and 
tell me what it is you mane, at all at all.’ 

“ ‘ Parly voo frongsay? says I. 

“ ‘Oh, your humble sarvant,’ says he; ‘why, you ’re 
a scholar, Paddy.’ 

“ ‘Throth, you may say that,’ says I. 

“ ‘Why, you ’re a clever fellow, Paddy,’ says the 
captain, jeerin’ like. 

“ ‘You ’re not the first that said that,’ says I, 
‘whether you joke or no.’ 

“ ‘Oh, but I ’m in airnest,’ says the captain — ‘and 
do you tell me, Paddy,’ says he, ‘that you spake 
Frinch?’ 

“ ‘ Parly voo frongsay,’ says I. 

“ ‘That bangs Banagher, and all the world knows 
Banagher beats the divil — I never met the likes o’ 
you, Paddy,’ says he — ‘pull away, boys, and put 
Paddy ashore, and maybe we won’t get a good bellyful 
before long.’ 

“So with that it was no sooner said nor done — 
they pulled away, and got close in shore in less than no 
time, and run the boat up in a little creek, and a 
beautiful creek it was, with a lovely white sthrand — 
an iligant place for ladies to bathe in the summer; and 
out I got — and it ’s stiff enough in my limbs I was, 
afther bein’ cramp’d up in the boat, and perished with 
the cowld and hunger; but I conthrived to scramble on, 
351 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

one way or t’other, tow’rds a little bit iv a wood that 
was close to the shore, and the smoke curlin ’ out of it, 
quite timptin’ like. 

“ ‘By the powdhers o’ war, I ’m all right,’ says I; 
‘there ’s a house there;’ and sure enough there was, and 
a parcel of men, women, and childher, ating their 
dinner around a table, quite convaynient. And so I 
wint up to the door, and I thought I ’d be very civil 
to thim, as I heerd the Frinch was always mighty p’lite 
intirely — and I thought I ’d show them I knew what 
good manners was. 

“So I took aff my hat, and, making a low bow, says 
I, ‘God save all here,’ says I. 

“Well, to be sure, they all stopt ating at wanst, and 
begun to stare at me — and, faith, they almost look’d 
me out o’ countenance; and I thought to myself it 
was not good manners at all — more betoken from 
furriners, which they call so mighty p’lite; but I never 
minded that, in regard o’ wantin’ the gridiron; and so 
says I, ‘I beg your pardon,’ says I, ‘for the liberty I 
take, but it ’s only bein’ in disthress in regard of ating,’ 
says I, ‘that I make bowld to throuble yez, and if you 
could lind me the loan of a gridiron,’ says I, ‘I ’d be 
entirely obleeged to ye.’ 

“They all stared at me twice worse nor before; and 
with that, says I (knowin’ what was in their minds), 
‘indeed, it ’s thrue for you,’ says I — ‘I’m tatthered to 
pieces, and God knows I look quare enough — but it ’s 
by raison of the storm,’ says I, ‘which dhruv us ashore 
here below, and we ’re all starvin’,’ says I. 

“So then they began to look at each other agin; and 
352 


THE LOAN OF A GRIDIRON 

myself, seeing at wanst dirty thoughts was in their 
heads, and that they tuk me for a poor beggar, cornin’ 
to crave charity — with that, says I, 4 Oh, not at all,’ 
says I, ‘ by no manes — we have plenty of mate our- 
selves, there below, and we ’ll dhress it,’ says I, ‘if 
you would be plased to lind us the loan of a gridiron,’ 
says I, makin’ a low bow. 

“Well, sir, with that, throth they stared at me twice 
worse nor ever — and, faith, I began to think that 
maybe the captain was wrong, and that it was not 
France at all at all; and so says I, ‘I beg pardon, sir,’ 
says I, to a fine owld man, with a head of hair as white 
as silver — ‘maybe I’m undher a mistake,’ says I; 
‘but I thought I was in France, sir: aren’t you fur- 
riners ? ’ says I — ‘ Parly voo frongsay ? * 

“‘We, munseer,’ says he. 

“ ‘Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron,’ 
says I, ‘if you plase?’ 

“Oh, it was thin they stared at me as if I had siven 
heads; and, faith, myself began to feel flusthered like, 
and onaisy — and so says I, makin’ a bow and scrape 
agin, ‘I know it ’s a liberty I take, sir,’ says I, ‘but it ’s 
only in the regard of bein’ cast away; and if you plase, 
sir,’ says I, ‘ Parly voo frongsay?' 

“ ‘Munseer,’ says he, mighty sharp. 

“ ‘Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron?’ 
says I, ‘and you ’ll obleege me.’ 

“Well, sir, the ould chap began to munseer me; but 
the divil a bit of a gridiron he ’d gi’ me; and so I began 
to think they wor all neygars, for all their fine manners; 
and throth my blood begun to rise, and says I, ‘By my 
353 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


sowl, if it was you in disthriss,’ says I, ‘and if it was to 
owld Ireland you kem, it ’s not only the gridiron they ’d 
give you, if you ax’d it, but something to put on it too, 
and the dhrop o’ dhrink into the bargain, and cead 
mille failte.’ 

“Well, the word cead mille failte seemed to sthreck 
his heart, and the owld chap cocked his ear, ‘and so I 
thought I ’d give him another offer, and make him 
sinsible at last; and so says I, wanst more, quite slow, 
that he might undherstand — ‘ Parly — voo — frongsay , 
munseer ? ’ 

“ ‘We, munseer,’ says he. 

“ ‘Then lind me the loan of a gridiron,’ says I, ‘ and 
bad scram to you.’ 

“Well, bad win to the bit of it he ’d gi’ me, and the 
owld chap begins bowin’ and scrapin,’ and said some- 
thing or other about a long tongs. 

“ ‘Phoo! — the divil sweep yourself and your tongs,’ 
says I, ‘I don’t want a tongs at all at all; but can’t 
you listen to raison,’ says I — ‘ Parly voo frongsay ? 9 

“ ‘We, munseer.’ 

“ ‘Then lind me the loan of a gridiron,’ says I, ‘and 
howld your prate.’ 

“Well, what would you think but he shook his owld 
noddle as much as to say he would n’t; and so says I, 

‘ Bad cess to the likes o’ that I ever seen — throth if 
you wor in my counthry it ’s not that-a-way they ’d 
use you; the curse o’ the crows on you, you owld sinner,’ 
says I, ‘the divil a longer I ’ll darken your door.’ 

“So he seen I was vex’d, and I thought, as I was 
turnin’ away, I seen him begin to relint, and that his 
354 


THE LOAN OF A GRIDIRON 


conscience throubled him; and, says I, turnin’ back, 
‘Well, I’ll give you one chance more — you owld 
thief — are you a Chrishthan at all at all? Are you a 
furriner,’ says I, ‘that all the world calls so p’lite? 
Bad luck to you, do you undherstand your own lan- 
guage? — Parly voo frongsayf’ says I. 

“ ‘We, munseer,’ says he. 

“ ‘Then thunder an turf,’ says I, ‘will you lind me 
the loan of a gridiron?’ 

“Well, sir, the divil resave the bit of it he ’d gi’ me — 
and so with that, ‘ The curse o’ the hungry an you, you 
owld negardly villain,’ says I; ‘ the back o’ my hand and 
the sowl o’ my fut to you, that you may want a gridiron 
yourself yit,’ says I; ‘and wherever I go, high and low, 
rich and poor, shall hear o’ you,’ says I; and with that 
I left them there, sir, and kem away — and in throth 
it ’s often sense that I thought that it was remarkable.” 


EZEKIEL’S RACE WITH THE 
BELL 

By Lucy Pratt 

M ISS JANE LANE sat in a straight-backed chair 
on her clean, white veranda, and, quite ignoring 
the glistening, alluring Hampton Roads which beckoned 
to her in the morning sun, gave her undivided attention 
to a small note which she held in her hand. And as she 
read, Miss Jane’s face became both shocked and 
grieved. Her protege, Ezekiel Esquire Jordan, sat on 
a step below her and, looking both cheerful and re- 
signed to anything, regarded the glistening, alluring 
“Roads” which also beckoned to him in the morning 
sun. 

But Miss Jane had laid down her paper and was 
looking at him, still both shocked and grieved. 

“To think, Ezekiel,” she finally began, taking the 
bull fairly and squarely by the horns, “to think, that 
after all the trouble and pains that have been taken to 
get you into the Whittier School, and after their con- 
sideration in being willing to admit you there, to think, 
that after all this, you can’t manage to get there on 
time .” 

“ Yas’m,” murmured Ezekiel contritely. 

“Well, now, just tell me why it is that you can't 
manage to get there on time.” 

356 


EZEKIEL’S RACE WITH THE BELL 

“7 dunno’m,” murmured Ezekiel again. 

“Four mornings!” went on Miss Jane. “For four 
mornings , so I hear from the principal, in a note written 
yesterday afternoon, you have been late. Why, I am 
ashamed of you, Ezekiel.” 

Ezekiel failed to respond, even briefly. 

“What excuse have you to offer, I should like to 
know? What reason did you give Miss Doane? Any?” 

“Yas’m. I jes’ ’mence tellin’ ’er all ’bout ’ow I’se 
cornin’ down de road, ’n’ all ’bout ole man where ’s 
pushin’ ’long li’l’ ole cyart ’n’ a-sellin’ li’l’ hotcakes — ’n’ 
she say dat ain’ no ’scuse, ’n’ she ain’ gwine lemme 
come ’t all lessen I kin git dere time de res’ does.” 

“I should say not,” agreed Miss Jane, in no doubtful 
tones. “I only wonder that they have kept you as long 
as they have. Now, the truth of the matter is, Ezekiel, 
there is not the slightest excuse for your having been 
late once. Not once.” 

“Yas’m, Miss Doane she say ’t ain’ no ’scuse nudder. 
’N’ I jes’ ’mence tellin’ her ’bout ole man where ’s 
sellin’ li’l’ hot cakes — ” 

“But that had nothing to do with you. Absolutely 
nothing.” 

“No’m. ’T ain’ nuth’n’ dowidme. But ole man come 
’long a-pushin’ on ’is cyart, say: — 

“‘Heyo, boy! Ain’t yer want a li’l’ hot cake fer yer 
breakfus’?’ Speak jes’ dat-a-way, Miss Jane. Say: — 

“ ‘Heyo, boy! Ain’t yer want a li’l’ hot cake fer yer 
breakfus’?’ 

“ ’ N’ co’se I ain’t. ’N’ yit co’se I’se ’blige answer 
’im, too. So: — 


357 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“ ‘No,’ I say, ‘I ain’ want no liT hot cake fer my 
breakfus’.’ 

“ ‘Ain’t yer?’ ole man say, ‘ ain’t yer? Cuz I kin 
give yer li’1’ hot cake fer a penny.’ 

“ ‘Penny nuth’n’,’ I say. Yas’m, it ’s jes’ de way I 
answer ’im, Miss Jane. ‘ Penny nuth’n’,’ I say. Cuz 
co’se I knows I ain’ no time fer no sech foolishness. 
But same time I jes’ ’appen ter kine o’ feel in my 
pocket, yer know, jes’ kine o’ feel in my pocket.” 

“Now, this is all entirely unnecessary, Ezekiel,” put 
in Miss Jane; “you were late to school, and that is 
enough.” 

“Yas’m. But w’en I putten my han’ in my pocket, 
yer see, yer see I jes’ natchelly — ” 

“Yes, I don’t doubt you found a penny. Now really, 
are n’t you ashamed, Ezekiel, to have made yourself 
late to school in this inexcusable way?” 

“ ’N’ co’se ole man, jes’ soon ’s he seen dat penny 
he jes’ whup outen a li’1’ cake ’n’ putten it on de fiah 
twell it begins a-sizzlin’ ’n’ a-smokin’ ’n’ a-poppin’ jes’ 
like praesen’ly somebody ’ll be ’ blige ter eat it. ’N’ 
ole man say : — 

“ ‘Hyeah ’s yer li’1’ hot cake fer yer!’ 

“ ’N’ co’se I’se r’al mad w’en he talk dat-a-way too. 
Cuz co’se I ain’ no time ter eat nuth’n’. 

“ ‘ G’long ! ’ I say. ‘ I ain’ gwine eat no li’1’ hot cake,’ 
I say, ‘cuz I ain’ time! You hyeah?’ 

“‘Ain’ time!’ he say, ‘ ’N’ after I’se jes’ been 
a-cookin’ it fer yer! Ain’ time! Well, yer is! Yer ’s 
’blige ter eat it ! ’ 

“ ‘I ain’ nudder!’ I say. ‘ No, suh! I ain’t!’ 

358 


EZEKIEL’S RACE WITH THE BELL 

“ ’N’ same time, co’se, liT cake ’s jes’ a-sizzlin’ on de 
fiah. 

“ ‘Yer ain’t!’ he holler, ‘well, who is? I ain’t! Some- 
body ’s ’blige ter, ain’t dey! ’N’ I ain’t!’ 

“ ‘I ain’t!’ I say. 

“‘I ain’t!’ he holler back. 

“ ‘’N’ I ain’t!’ I holler back ’gin. 

“’N’ li’l’ cake ’s jes’ a-sizzlin’ on de fiah.” 

“ Ezekiel ! ” put in Miss Jane. “ This is altogether too 
ridiculous . N ow I should like you to talk common sense. ’ * 

“Wha’m yer say, Miss Jane? Yas’m. 

“ ‘ ’N’ I ain’t! ’ I holler back agin. Yas’m, I jes holler 
back, Miss Jane.” 

“Very well. I don’t care what you hollered back. 
And I don’t care to hear anything more about the old 
man or the little cake, either.” 

Ezekiel looked momentarily crushed. 

“Of course,” she added, more leniently, “I suppose 
you ate it, did n’t you?” 

“Well, yer see, Miss Jane — he jes’ keep on a-holl’in’ 
an’ a-holl’in’, twell presen’ly — yer see — I’se jes’ 

’ blige ter eat it.” 

“Yes. I thought so. Now, Ezekiel. This morning 
I will see that you get to school in time. No, it is n’t 
time to start yet. I will tell you when it is. I can’t 
get over your seeming lack of appreciation, Ezekiel. 
I sometimes wonder how it was that you were ever 
admitted to the Whittier School, anyway.” 

Ezekiel looked rather mystified about it himself. 

“And especially after that very queer story that you 
told that first afternoon — about — ” 

359 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“’Bout ’Manuel ’n’ li’l’ dawg,” explained Ezekiel. 
“Yas’m. Miss No’th she tole me I kin tell a story ter 
de chillen. ’N’ ’s all ’bout ’Manuel ’n’ ’is li’l’ dawg. 
’N’ ’bout after de li’l’ dawg gotten drownded, ’Manuel 
he ’s jes’ ’blige ter live dere all ’lone.” 

“It was very good of Miss North to let you tell it, I 
am sure. For of course she must have known that it 
was an entirely made-up story.” 

“But I ain’t tole ’em all ’bout it, nudder. Cuz af’ de 
li’l’ dawg drownded, w’y, af’ dat, co’se, ’Manuel ’s all 
’lone ’gin. So praesen’ly he ’s jes’ ’blige git ’im anudder 
li’l’ an’mul. 

“’N’ after studyin’ ’bout it long time, he ’cide ter 
git ’im a li’l’ chick’n.” 

“A chicken?” questioned Miss Jane, “I shouldn’t 
think that a chicken would have made a very satis- 
factory pet.” 

“Yas’m, he gotten ’im a li’l’ chick’n. ’N’ fus’ time 
he ever seen ’er, she come a-flyin’ right in fru de do’, 
a-settin’ on a li’l’ leaf.” 

“A leaf? But no chicken could have been supported 
by a leaf” 

“Yas’m, a-flyin’ right in fru de do’ a-settin’ on a li’l’ 
leaf. ’N’ she keep on flyin’ ’long on de leaf, right up, 
’n’ right up, twell she gotten clare up ter de tip top o’ 
de room. ’N’ den she turn ’roun, ’n’ jes’ set righ’ down 
on a li’l’ sunbeam where ’s cornin’ in fru de winder.’ 

“But she couldn't have sat down on a sunbeam, 
Ezekiel. Be sensible.” 

“Yas’m, she is. Jes’ a-settin’ up dere on a li’l* sun- 
beam. ’N’ praesen’ly li’l’ boy calls out: — 

360 


EZEKIEL’S RACE WITH THE BELL 

“ ‘Oh, ain’t yer gwine come down? Ain’t yer gwine 
come down? Come down, ’n’ we ’ll git us some break- 
fus’!’ 

“But liT chick’n on de sunbeam, co’se she ain’t 
gwine be fool dat-a-way ’thout axin’ a li’P mo’ ’bout it. 
So she answer back: — 

“ ‘ W’at ’s yer gwine have fer breakfus’?* 

“ ‘Gwine have some tea — ’n’ some cake — ’n’ — ’ 

“ ‘Well, I ain’t cornin’ down fer no sech a thing,’ 
chick’n say. 

“ ‘But it ’s co’w cake,’ ’Manuel call out. ‘Wid liT 
kernels o’ co’n a-stickin’ right into it ! ’ 

“ ‘Well, w’y ain’t yer say so ’fo’?’ she say. ’N’ she 
jes’ hop right offen de li’l’ sunbeam, ’n’ flew righ’ down 
on de flo’ siden de li’l’ boy. 

“’N’ ’Manuel he jes’ ’kine o’ has ter laf to ’isself ter 
think she been ser sassy. ’N’ yit he speak up r’al deep 
’n’ kine o’ big like, say: “ ‘W’at ’s yer name, chick’n?’ 

“‘My name Joshua,’ chick’n say r’al peart. 

“ ’N’ she give ’er lef ’ wing a flop, ’n’ snap ’er eyes at 
de li’l’ boy twell he ’s mos’ ’blige ter laf agin. 

“ ‘Joshua!’ he say, ‘ain’ dat kine o’ funny name fer 
— fer a chick’n?’ 

“ ‘No, ’t ain’ nuth’n’ funny ’bout it!’ Joshua say, 
r’al mad, ’n’ flap bofe ’er wings jes’ like she ’s gwine fly 
up on de sunbeam agin. 

“ ‘Dat ’s de trufe,’ ’Manuel say, ‘cert’nly is de trufe. 
’T ain’ nuth’n’ funny ’bout it. Cert’nly hope yer ’s well, 
Joshua.’ 

“’N’ af’ dat li’l’ chick’n ’n’ ’Manuel live dere ’lone 
tergedder. 


361 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“’N’ liT chick’n’s name Joshua jes’ same ’s befo’. 

“’N’ eve ’y thing jes’ goes ’long so, ’cep’n’ w’en Joshua 
git mad at de liT boy. ’N’ den she allays stick outen 
’er fedders, ’n’ snap ’er eyes, V flap ’er wings like she 
gwine up on de liT sunbeam agin, twell ’Manuel speak 
up quick ’n’ say : — 

“ ‘Oh, co’se I ain’ ’ten’ no harm, Joshua! ’Scuse me l 
Co’se ain’t ’ten no harm ! ’ 

“ But one mawnin’ li’l’ boy he seem ter kine o’ fergit 
’bout Joshua bein’ s’ easy ter git mad, ’n’ jes’ after 
breakfus’, w’en dey ’s fixin’ ter clean up de house, he 
slap ’er kine o’ laffin ’n’ easy like siden de haid, call 
out: — 

“‘Come ’long, ole chick’n! Who you think y’ are, 
a-tippin’ roun’ yere ez ef yer ’s to a party? Come ’long, 
now, ’n’ git yer wuk done ! ’ 

“’N’ Joshua, ain’ she mad! Oh, my! She jes’ stick 
outen ’er fedders, ’n’ swell up, ’n’ snap ’er eyes at de 
li’l’ boy, ’n’ begins flappin’ ’er wings, flap, flap, flap! 
’N’ she ’s gwine right up on dat li’l’ sunbeam agin, 
sho’. 

“ ‘Oh, w’at yer stan’in’ up dere a-flappin’ away like 
a ole win’mill fer?’ ’Manuel say. ‘W’at yer stan’in’ up 
dere like dat fer, huh? ’ 

“Oh, my! Joshua ain’t ’er eyes snap! ’N’ flap, flap, 
flap she went agin, flap, flap, flap! Right stret up, up, 
up, ter dat li’l’ sunbeam! ’N’ den she turn ’roun, ’n’ 
se’ down ’n’ look down at ’Manuel agin, ’n’ ’er eyes keep 
on a-snappin’, ’n’ ’er fedders a-stickin’ out, ’n’ ’er wings 
still a-gwine flap, flap, flap ! 

“ ‘Well, w’at yer s’mad ’bout now?’ ’Manuel say; 
362 


EZEKIEL’S RACE WITH THE BELL 

* yer better come down now: Yer better Come down 
now, Joshua! Cuz co’se I ain’ ’ten’ no harm!’ 

“But li’l’ chick’n ain’t say nary word, jes’ set dere 
on de li’l’ sunbeam, ’n’ ain’t say nary word. 

“’N’ all day ’Manuel keep on a-callin’, ’n’ all day 
Joshua she jes’ keep on a-settin’ dere, ’n’ ain’ say nary 
word. Twell praesen’ly, w’en it ’mence gettin’ kine o’ 
late, li’l’ boy call out : — 

“ ‘Well, w’at yer gwine do w’en de sun ’s went down? 
W’at yer gwine set on w’en de sun ’s went down? ’ 

“ ’N’ Joshua she speak up fer de fus’ time. 

“ ‘Gwine set on de moon,’ she say. 

“’N’ doan’t yer know, jes’ ’s she spoken de words, 
li’l’ sunbeam begins ter flicker back ’n’ fofe, back ’n’ 
fofe, ’n’ praesen’ly it jes’ flicker right out fru de winder. 
’N’ same time it all ’mence gittin’ ser kine o’ dark, seem 
like ’Manuel he cyan’ see nuth’n’ ’t all. ’N* all he kin 
hyeah ’s jes’ li’l’ chick’n still a-flappin’ jes’ same 
way ’s ’fo’. So he jes’ wait — twell it begin gittin’ 
a liT lighter, ’n’ a li’l’ lighter, twell sho’ ’nuff, w’en 
he looks up agin he seen a r’al shinin’ li’l’ moonbeam 
a-comin’ right in fru de winder jes’ where sunbeam ’s 
went out. 

“ ’N’ Joshua she jes’ turn ’roun’ ’n’ set right down on 
de moonbeam. 

“ ’N’ li’l’ boy he look up fru de light where 's cornin’ 
down ser bright ’n’ shinin’ fum de li’l’ beam, twell he 
seen Joshua a-settin’ dere, ’n’ den he jes’ lay down on 
de flo’ where it ’s a li’l’ nudder dash o’ light, ’n’ drap 
right off ter sleep. ’N’ he sleep dere all night long on 
same li’l’ dash o’ light. 


363 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“’N’ Joshua keep on a-settin’ dere all night too, on 
same liT moonbeam. 

44 ’N’ so she keep it up — jes’ same — 5 n’ ain’ nuver 
come down — keep on a-settin’ on de sunbeam all day ' 
’n’ de moonbeam all night. ’N’ she git thinner ’n’ 
thinner, ’n’ smaller V smaller, ’n’ still she ain’t come 
down. 

44 ’N’ one night de liT boy look up in de light ’n’ 
begins ter cry, ’n’ say : — 

“ 4 Oh, yer ’s gittin’ smaller ’n’ smaller, Joshua ! Yer ’s 
ser small now I cyant sca’cely see yer!’ 

“ ’N’ it ’s mos’ mawnin’ when he spoke. 

“’N’ praesen’ly he kin hyeah sump’n’ where soun’ 
like de liT chick’n’s voice kine o’ far ’way, say: — 

44 4 Good-bye! I’se ser small I seem ter jes’ be gwine 
right off in de moonbeam ! ’ 

44 ’N’ it flicker ’n’ flicker agin, ’n’ at las’ flicker out 
fru de winder. 

44 ’N’ ’Manuel he jes’ wait a-lookin’ up. Jes’ wait. 
’N’ de sunbeam come back. ’N’ still he ’s lookin’ up. 
But she ain’t dere. Not no liT chick’n a-settin’ on de 
beam. Not narry one. Cuz Joshua ’s went off in de 
moonbeam, ’n’ dat ’s de en’ o’ de story.” 

Miss Jane passed her hand over her forehead, and 
glanced off at the beckoning Hampton Roads. 

There was a faint, far-away sound down the road. 

44 What a very — queer sort of story, Ezekiel. How 
did you ever happen to think of such a thing? ” 

From away down the road came the faint, far-away 
sound again. 

“ Ezekiel ! What ’s that ? ” 

364 


EZEKIEL’S RACE WITH THE BELL 

He looked back at her, half confusedly at first, then 
with sudden, vivid realization : — 

“It ’s de school-bell a-ringin’, Miss Jane! It — it ’s 
de school-bell — a-ringin’!” 

“I know it.” Miss Jane looked suddenly horrified. 
“And I told you — I would tell you! Run, Ezekiel! 
Run as fast as you can!” 

Ezekiel jumped from the clean white veranda and 
swept off into the road. Miss Jane stood looking at 
him as he gradually faded before her eyes. Into the 
road — around the corner — into another long, straight 
road — and he was gone. 

Other people, big and little, traveling on in the long, 
straight road, stepped aside and looked curiously at him. 

Cling ! Clang ! came the clear, small note of the little 
Whittier bell — still far away, and he was still sweeping 
on, a strange, ever-increasing thing of speed. A some- 
thing real seemed actually to have taken hold of him. 

“Not no mo’ ! She — she say — I cyan’ come — no 
mo’ — ef I’se late,” he gasped between his breaths. 
“Not no mo’!” 

And the Whittier School stood at the other end of 
the road, growing gradually in distinctness. 

“Not — no mo’!” 

It grew gradually, surely. He could see it standing 
up there — almost mockingly. He thought — he could 
see it all, too, just as it was inside, the children just 
getting ready to march to the assembly room, listening 
to the first music from the piano, coming in to them 
faintly — Miss Doane on the platform and Miss North 
looking — perhaps she was looking for him — she 
365 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


always looked so sorry when he was late — and yet — 
she always seemed so quick to understand. Oh, he 
did n’t mean to be late this morning! 

“Not no mo 7” 

A boy striding on ahead of him fell kicking in the 
dust, but Ezekiel — did n’t know. Ezekiel was tear- 
ing, flying, sweeping breathlessly on to the Whittier 
School. Another boy dodged and shied off into the 
hedge at one side, but Ezekiel — did n’t know. Ezekiel 
was tearing, flying, sweeping on. The last note of the 
bell died away and reverberated, and he was in the 
school yard. 

And just here something unexpected but fully 
realized happened. A small kindergarten child stepped 
suddenly before him, and down went the child. Then, 
for the first time, Ezekiel stopped. It was something 
like the quick, jolting stop of an electric car, and he 
looked down breathless, distressed, and haggard. But 
it was only a momentary setback. In another moment 
the child was picked up, thrown up, and he was on 
again, up the steps, through the back hall, and into 
the schoolroom, while the kindergartner hung back 
over his shoulder crying miserably. 

“Why, Ezekiel!” 

Miss North looked at him, endeavoring to compre- 
hend. And the children looked too. 

Ezekiel dropped into his seat, and the kindergartner 
dropped gently to the floor beside him. 

“I — I — I ain’t late — is I? I ain’t late — is I, 
Miss No’th?” His head dropped down in his chest, 
which heaved with convulsed, exhausted little gasps. 

366 


EZEKIEL’S RACE WITH THE BELL 

“Why, no, you are n’t late,” she began gently, look- 
ing at him wonderingly, “but — what in the world” — • 
she picked up the small kindergartner and sat down 
wiping away his big, unhappy tears. 

And just then the door opened and a boy with a 
muddy, scratched face came shuffling into the room. 

“He — he knock me inter de brier bush!” he began, 
pointing wrathfully at Ezekiel. 

Again the door opened, and another boy came in. 
He was limping with conscious heroism, and a big 
black and blue bump on his forehead stood out with 
unmistakable distinctness. 

“Ole ’Zekle Jerden knock me down, Miss No’th!” 
he began, with perhaps an even more violent show of 
wrath. “I’se jes’ walkin’ down de road, ’n’ ole ’Zekle 
Jerden come ’long ’n’ knock me down ! ” 

Miss North, with dawning comprehension, and a 
sudden faint, rebellious contraction at the corners of 
the mouth, looked at the newcomers. 

“I — I am sorry. Sit down, both of you.” 

The small kindergartner still sobbed softly, and 
Ezekiel looked up wearily. 

“Is I — hurt dat li’l’ chile — Miss No’th?” he 
whispered. “I — I seem ter be gwine ser fas’ — I 
could n’ seem ter stop.” 

She put her cool hand on his hot, thumping fore- 
head. 

“No, you have n’t hurt him. But how did all this — 
happen, Ezekiel?” 

“I didn’t wanter — git sent — ’way,” he whispered 
again, faintly. “But I wisht I’d started — jes’ali’l’ 
367 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

bit earlier. I — reckon ’t ain’ been — quite ser much 
trouble ’bout it — ef I had.” 

“I wish you had, Ezekiel.” 

And once again the door opened and this time Miss 
Jane Lane walked into the room. 

“Miss North,” she began, in a low tone of abject 
apology. “I am very sorry that Ezekiel was late, but I 
want to explain that it was my fault, entirely my fault. 
I really told him that I would tell him when it was time 
to start. But — he was telling me a story” — Miss 
Jane looked positively foolish — “and I did n’t realize 
the time.” 

Miss North’s smile was comforting. 

“He was telling you a story?” Miss North’s smile 
broadened. “But he was not late, Miss Lane. He 
came in at the last moment, to be sure, behind the 
others — but he was not late.” 

“Not late? He just escaped being late? Why, how 
very glad I am ! But surely it would have been better if 
he had started earlier, much better. I will see that he 
does start earlier in the future, Miss North.” 

Miss North glanced around the room, which pre- 
sented a strangely battered-up appearance, glanced at 
the boy with the scratched cheeks and the boy with 
the bumped forehead, and then down at the small 
kindergartner, still sobbing softly into her skirts. And 
finally her glance went back to Ezekiel, sitting limp and 
exhausted in his seat, with his head dropped wearily. 

“ Yes,” she agreed. “Yes, I do think that it would be 
better for him to start — a little earlier.” 


368 


“A BOOK FOR MOTHERS” 

By Lucy Pratt 

B OTH Miss North and Ezekiel were at school early. 

Miss North apparently considered it an oppor- 
tunity of advantage. 

“Come here, Ezekiel,” she began, looking up from 
her desk. Ezekiel approached. 

“Now, I want you to put your mind on this, Ezekiel,” 
she went on, taking the bull by the horns, “and see if 
you can tell me why it is that you have been doing so 
badly in your work for the last few days. Of course, 
you must know that you have been doing very badly, 
don’t you?” 

Ezekiel looked rather grieved at hearing the matter 
put so plainly, but did not offer an immediate explana- 
tion. 

“Well, now, I suppose there must be some reason for 
this,” went on Miss North logically, “because don’t 
you know how very well you have been doing — until 
just lately? Why, of course there must be some reason 
for it?” 

“Yas’m, mus’ be so,” agreed Ezekiel faintly. 

“Yes, of course. Now, what is it?” 

“I dunno’m,” returned Ezekiel, as if he were really 
the very last one who should be expected to know. 
“Well, you must find out, Ezekiel,” announced 
369 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Miss North concisely, “and you must begin to do very 
much better again.” 

“Yas’m,” agreed Ezekiel, apparently perfectly wil- 
ling to investigate, and perfectly willing to improve, 
too, if it were really necessary. 

“Yas’m. One time I’se a-wukkin’ fer Mis’ Simons 
in de gyarden, ’n’ she come along, talk jes’ dat-a-way, 
too. Say: “ ‘W’y, ’Zek’el, yer mus’ do ve'y much 
better ’n dis. Is I ’blige set righ’ down yere ’n’ watch 
yer ?’ she say. ’N’ I say, ‘No’m.’ ’N’ she say, ‘Well, 
certainly look like she is.’ So she se’ down, ’n’ fus’ yer 
know, she ’s a-readin’ outen a book ’n’ ain’ payin’ no 
mo’ ’tention ter me ’n ’s ef I ain’ dere ’t all.” 

“Yes; that has n’t really very much to do with this, 
but still I can imagine, too, that it might have been 
so.” 

“Yas’m; ’n’ praesen’ly, after she ’s been a-readin’ 
quite a li’l’ while, she gotten up ag’in ’n’ walk off, ’n’ 
say dat cert’nly ’s de mos’ no-count book where ’s been 
written fer some time; she reckon she could ’a’ done 
better ’erself.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” murmured Miss North — “not 
for a moment. Well, Ezekiel, I shall expect to notice 
a great improvement in you to-day.” 

“Yas’m. Say she reckon she could ’a’ done better 
’erself. Is yer ever written a book, Miss No’th?” 

“No, I never have,” admitted Miss North. 

“Cuz I’se writin’ a book now,” he went on medita- 
tively. 

“Are you?” Miss North felt painfully inferior. 
“What is your book about, Ezekiel?” 

370 


“A BOOK FOR MOTHERS” 


“’Bout — ’bout chillen — ’n’ mothers ,” explained 
Ezekiel modestly. “ Is yer say yer ain’ nuver written a 
book yit, Miss No’th?” 

“Never,” reiterated Miss North, bound to be truth- 
ful to the bitter end. 

“Cuz I doan’ guess Miss’ Simons nuver written 
a book, nurrer,” he went on ruminatingly but 
consolingly. “No’m, I doan’ guess she nuver 
did.” 

“I don’t believe she ever did, either,” returned Miss 
North, taking hope. “But, now, this book of yours, 
Ezekiel — you say it is about children and — ” 

“ ’Bout chillen ’n’ — mothers,” explained Ezekiel 
again; “but mo’ specially ’bout mothers.” 

“I see. Don’t you find it rather a large subject? 
That is — don’t you find it rather — rather hard to 
write about children and mothers?” 

“Yas’m, kine o’ hard; specially ’bout mothers.” 

“Yes, I should think so,” agreed Miss North. “Per- 
haps you will let me see your book some time. Do you 
think you could?” 

“Yas’m. Yer kin see it now, ef yer wants ter. 
Yas’m, yer kin see it right now, Miss No’th.” 

“No, it is time for the bell now. But some time, 
some time I should like very much to see it. Take your 
seat now, Ezekiel.” 

And the children, in a long, winding file, had marched 
in. 

But it was not until the morning was almost gone, 
and the immaculate specimen copy for the daily writing 
lesson was being painstakingly reproduced on long, 
371 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

straight lines, that the first complaint of the day was 
made. 

“Ole ’Zek’el Jerden, he ain’ doin’ no writin’ lesson,” 
came the voice of righteous indignation; “he ’s writin’ 
sump’n’ else.” 

To be sure. Ezekiel was writing in his book. 

“Ezekiel,” began Miss North in suggestive tones, 
“do you remember what I told you this morning?” 

“Yas’m” — Ezekiel’s book disappeared inside his 
desk — “yas’m, I ’se gwine do my writin’, Miss 
No’th.” 

But it was the afternoon that was almost gone when 
the next complaint came in. Again they were repro- 
ducing neat little paragraphs from the blackboard, and 
again there came an indignant voice: — 

“’Zek’el Jerden ain’ copyin’ no home-wuk ’t all!” 

Certainly not. Ezekiel was writing in his book. 

“Ezekiel” — Miss North’s voice sounded uncom- 
promising — “you may bring that book to my desk.” 

Ezekiel rather sheepishly made his way to the desk 
and deposited a magnificent checkered-backed note- 
book. 

“Now you may copy your home work. I begin to 
see why you have fallen back in your work, Ezekiel.” 

But the children, in a long, winding file, had marched 
out again, and again Ezekiel stood before Miss North’s 
desk. Across the front row sat three small and meek- 
looking individuals, whose glances back and forth among 
themselves and up toward Miss North alternated be- 
tween broad but surreptitious grins and modest, long- 
suffering looks of resignation. 

372 


“A BOOK FOR MOTHERS” 


“I should like you very straight and quiet in the 
front row, please,” suggested Miss North. 

Their general appearance, at this point, was so 
altogether nice and irreproachable that it really seemed 
rather indelicate of Miss North to have referred to it at 
all. 

“And now, Ezekiel, as I said before, I begin to see 
why you have fallen back in your work.” 

“Yas’m,” responded Ezekiel, evidently quite clear 
on the matter, too. 

“Now, my suggestion is that you finish this book up 
just as soon as possible, and then perhaps you will be 
able to turn your attention to your school work 
again.” 

“Yas’m,” agreed Ezekiel, absolutely agreeable. 

“Well, now, how nearly done is the book? Do you 
think you could finish it to-night?” 

“’Bout — ’bout half done, I reckon; yas’m, I could 
finish it ter-night.” 

Miss North picked up the checkered-backed note- 
book and glanced over three or four painstakingly 
written pages. 

“It is n’t going to be a very long book, is it? Perhaps 
that is just as well, too. Well, suppose you read it to 
me as far as you have gone.” 

“Yas’m,” and Ezekiel obligingly took the book and 
began to read. 

“ 4 A Book For Mothers,’ ” he announced. 

“That is the title, I suppose,” suggested Miss North 
intelligently. “But I thought it was going to be both 
for mothers and children!” 

373 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“No’m; 'bout mothers ’n’ chillen, but specially for 
mothers.” 

“Oh, yes, of course. Now go on, Ezekiel, and I 
won’t interrupt.” 

The three across the front row looked quite impressed 
at the turn events had taken, and Ezekiel began 
again. 

According to oral interpretation, his written manu- 
script might have been about like this : — 

A BOOK FOR MOTHERS 

Eve’y mother where has sense should read dis book. Co’se, 
ef she ain’ got no sense, I s’pose it ain’ gwine do no good any- 
way, but ef she has, w’y, read it. 

This stipulation being made in regard to the readers 
of the book, Ezekiel glanced at Miss North (who, being 
taken a bit unawares, made haste to compose her 
countenance) and continued: — 

“ ‘Eve’y chile, at de age o’ twelve years ole, co’se 
begins gittin’ triflin’ ’n’ bad, ’n’ runs out on de street 
at night, ’n’ down ter Jones’s corner, ’n’ sometime look 
like his mother cyan’ do scacely nothin’ wid ’em ’t all — 
at de age o’ twelve years ole.’ ” 

“Is it always exactly at twelve?” put in Miss North 
modestly. 

“Yas’m. ‘So at de age o’ twelve years ole eve’y 
mother mus’ learn ’er chillen ’tain’ right ter ac’ no sech 
a way. ’N’ ef she cyan’ learn ’em, she mus’ whup ’em, 
’n’ ef dat ain’ no use, she must mek ’em go hongry ’mos’ 
all time, ’n’ whup ’em ag’in, ’n’ ef dat ain’ no use, w’y, 
she mus’ read ’em de Bible ’n’ see ’ow dat ’ll wuk. 

374 


“A BOOK FOR MOTHERS” 


‘“My country, ’t is of thee. 

Sweet land o’ liberty, 

O’ thee I sing!’” 

From all appearances Miss North had again been 
taken unawares. 

“What? What was that? What did you say, 
Ezekiel?” 

“I jes’ put in a liT pote-ry,” explained Ezekiel, “jes’ 
a liT verse o’ pote-ry to make it go ’long r’al smooth ’n’ 
soun’ kine o’ easy.” 

“Oh! Go on, Ezekiel!” 

“Yas’m. ‘Cuz, co’se, tain’ right fer chillen ter go 
runnin’ out at night, ’thout their mother. So, ef de 
Bible ain’ no use, w’y, she mus’ jes’ go runnin’ right 
’long, too.’” 

There was an audible snicker from one of the three 
in the front row — whether from mere nervous emotion 
at this forecast of a few of the scenes which were doubt- 
less in store for him at the age of twelve, or from real 
joy, was not at the moment apparent. 

“ ‘Once, ’t was a liT boy,’ ” went on Ezekiel, “ ‘’n* 
he ’s a r’al good liT boy, too, ’n’ allays went ter Sunday- 
school ’n’ mine ’is mamma, ’n’ ain’ nuver run down ter 
Jones’s corner ’cep’n’ w’en she sen’ ’im wid de ’lasses- 
bucket, ’n’ allays jes’ ez good! Twell nex’ he know he ’s 
twelve years ole. ’N’ den, co’se, he starts right off 
gittin’ trifling ’n’ bad. 

“ ‘Well, ef ’is mamma had did like she oughter, ’n’ 
whup ’im, ’n’ read ’im de Bible, ’n’ run out after ’im 
on de street, o’ co’se ’t would’ nuver ’a’ come out way it 
did. But she ain’ do no sech a thing. She jes’ say ef 
375 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

he ac’ dat-a-way, w’y, she ain’ gwine bother wid him 
’t all. So, w’at yer s’pose ’appen ter de li*l* boy? Well, 
one night ’bout twelve o’clock he wek up — yas, ’twuz 
jes’ ez de clock ’s a-strikin’ (twelve, apparently, was 
the fatal number), ’n’ fus’ he jes’ lay dere studyin’ ’bout 
what he ’ll do nex’. ’N’ den he ’cide it ’s gittin’ kine o’ 
wea’ysome layin’ dere ser long ’thout sayin’ nary word 
ter nobody, so he got outen de baid ’n’ start right out 
on de street. 

“ 4 ’N’ fus’ thing he seen a-comin’ down de road wuz 
a li’l’ gyurl a-trundlin’ ’long a baby-ca’iage wid a li’l’ 
baby a-settin’ right up on de seat a-chewin’ on a clo’es- 
pin.’ ” 

44 Twelve o’clock at night, did you say it was, Eze- 
kiel?” 

44 Yas’m, jes’ ’zackly twelve o’clock. 4 ’N’ some’ow 
it seem ter mek de li’l’ boy kine o’ mad w’en he seen de 
baby a-settin’ up on de seat, a-chewin’ on de clo’es-pin, 
so w’at yer s’pose he done? W’y, he jes’ hop right up in 
de ca’iage ’n’ set right plumb down top o’ de baby, ’n’ 
mash ’im ser flat dat praesen’ly we’n he jump out on 
de groun’ ’n’ look in de ca’iage ag’in, w’y, ’tain’ nothin’ 
lef’ o’ de baby ’tall, ’cep’n a kine o’ li’l’ flat cake like, 
not no bigger ’n dis ! ’ ” 

At this point Ezekiel was obliged to stop and point 
out to Miss North his sketch of the baby’s remains. 

44 ‘Well, w’en de li’l’ gyurl come roun’ ’n’ look in de 
ca’aige like she ’s gwine set ’er baby up r’al nice ag’in, 
’n’ ain’ foun’ nothin’ ’cep’n’ de li’l’ flat cake, w’y, den 
co’se she ’s mad. 

44 4 44 Now, ain’t yer ’shame ter do ’im like dat!” she 
376 


“A BOOK FOR MOTHERS” 


say. “Well, Fse gwine call de p’lice ’n’ show ’im jes’ 
w’at yer done!” 

“ ‘So she call de p’lice, ’n’ de p’lice come ’n’ look in 
de ca’aige. 

“Sho! Now, ain’ dat too bad!” p’lice say. “Wuz 
you de cause o’ dis disfiggerment, boy? Well, suh! 
I’se gwine Test yer fer ’sault ’n’ battery!” 

“ ‘So de li’l’ boy ’s ’rested frer ’sault ’n’ battery, ’n’ ’s 
’blige go ter jail ’n’ stay dere all de res’ of his life. 

‘“De rose is red, de vi’let ’s blue, 

De honey is sweet, ’n’ so are you, 

LiT gyurl where sets on de seat in de corner. 

Three cheers fer de red, white, ’n’ blue!’” 

This delightful mingling of sentiment and patriotism 
was evidently merely thrown in to relieve the stress 
and tension of the moment. At any rate, the three 
little boys in the front row drew a short breath of relief 
at the temporary stay in proceedings, and Ezekiel 
continued : — 

“ ‘Well, de nex’ time de li’l’ boy went out on de 
street at night, w’at yer s’pose he done? W’y, he jes’ 
bus’ right into a lady’s house ’n’ stole all her jew’lry. 
So de lady went climbin’ out de winder af’ ’im, ’n’ 
cotch ’im by de coat, ’n’ call de p’lice, ’n’ he ’s ’rested 
ag’in, ’n’ dat time dey had ’im shot fer a burglar. 

“ ‘But he keep on jes’ ez triflin’ ’n’ bad ’s ever, ’n’ 
nex’ time he met a ole gen’leman, ’n’ ’mence ter wrastle 
wid ’im right on de street. 

““‘Well, w’at yer doin’?” ole man say. “Well, 
I reckon I’se ’blige call my li’l’ dawg!” So ole man call 
’is li’l’ dawg, ’n’ de li’l’ boy run right up a tree, ’n’ de 
377 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

liT dawg after ’im. But soon ’s dey ’s up de tree, w’y 
de liT boy se’ down on one branch, ’n’ de liT dawg se’ 
down on anurrer branch, ’n’ so dey jes’ set dere 
a-blinkin’ at de dark. 

“ ‘ “Well, w’at you-all a-settin’ up dere like dat fer?” 
ole man say. “ Come down ! ” 

“ ‘But dey set dere jes’ same, a-blinkin’ at de dark. 

“ ‘ ’N’ ole man holler ag’in, V de moon come a-risin’ 
up in de sky, ’n’ den dey jes’ set dere a-blinkin’ at de 
moon. 

“ ‘ “Well, I’se gwine climb up ’n’ git yer, den,” ole 
man say, V he ’mence ter climb de tree. But de win* 
’mence ter blow, ’n’ de tree ’mence ter rock, V higher 
up ole man got de mo’ de win’ keep on blowin’, ’n’ de 
tree a-rockin’ back ’n’ fofe, back ’n’ fofe, ’n’ de li’l’ 
boy ’n’ de li’l’ dawg still a-settin’ on de branch a-blinkin’ 
at de moon. 

“ ‘ Come down!” ole man say. ’N’ same time he 
spoken de words de win’ jes’ blew ’im right outen de 
tree ’n’ he tum’le down on de groun’ daid ! 

“ 4 “See w’at yer done!” li’l’ dawg say. ’N’ same 
time he spoken de words, ole win’ jes’ blew ’im right 
outen de tree an’ he tum’le down daid on de groun’, 
too. 

“ ‘ But de li’l’ boy jes’ keep on a-settin’ on de branch 
a-blinkin’ at de moon. 

“ ‘ ’N’ w’en de p’lice come ’long ’n’ foun’ ’em all daid 
’cep’n’ de li’l’ boy where ’s settin’ on de branch, w’y, 
dey ’rest ’im ’n’ ca’ied ’im off ter jail, ’n’ dat time dey 
had ’is haid chop off fer a murd’rer. 

“‘’N’ nex’ time, he met a ole lady; ’n’ ole lady 
378 


“A BOOK FOR MOTHERS 


’mence ter seole ’im right smart fer beiiT out ser late 
in de night, so w’at yer s’pose he done? 

W’y is a elephunt like a brick?* 

(“ I’se ’fraid it ’s gittin’ kine o’ wea’ysome ’long 
yere, so I jes’ put in a liT riddle.) 

W’y is a elephunt like a brick? 

“‘Cuz cyan’t neider one of ’em climb a tree. 

‘“’N’ she ’mence ter scole ’im right smart fer bein’ 
out ser late in de night, so w’at yer s’pose he done? ’ 

“ I thought o’ sump’n’ else, too ! 

“W’y is a elephunt like a pertater? 

“ Cuz cyan’ neider one of ’em climb a tree ! ” 

“H’m, yes! I see! I see! I see! But what did he do y 
Ezekiel?” interrupted Miss North, in some alarm at 
this new field which was opening up with such a wealth 
of possibility. 

“W’y is a elephunt like a bag o’ salt? 

“W’y, cuz cyan’ neider one of ’em climb a tree! 

“I’se mekin’ ’em up myself, Miss No’th, ’n’ it ’s 
jes’ ez easy! 

“W’y is a elephunt — ” 

“7 see! But wait — Ezekiel! Now — tell me what 
he did!” 

“Well — well, yer see, I ain’ ’zackly ’cide w’at he 
is done, cuz dat ’s jes’ ez fur ’s I’se went we’n I ’mence 
’bout de elephunts. 

“W’y is a elephunt — ” 

“Yes! Yes, indeed! Certainly! And yet, that 
does n’t seem to be a very good place to leave it, either!” 

“No’m; ’tain’ no place ter leave it.” 

“So what did he do to the old lady? Would n’t it be 
379 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

nice to have him do something very kind, just for a 
little change ?” 

“Yas’m,” agreed Ezekiel, picking up connections 
again. 

“’N’ de ole lady ’mence ter scole ’im right smart 
fer bein’ out ser late in de night, so w’at yer s’pose he 
done? W’y, he give ’er a nice liT bag o’ cough-drops.” 

“That was kind, I am sure.” Miss North thought 
she saw the end in view. “Now, how are you going to 
finish it. ” 

“’N’ den he went home ’n’ drown ’isself in de well.” 

Ezekiel paused, evidently considering his labors prac- 
tically over. 

“That was a little sudden, wasn’t it?” suggested 
Miss North, “just a little sudden?” 

“Yas’m, but dat ain’ quite de en’, nudder. De en’ 
is ’bout mothers. Like dis : — 

“’N’ so eve’y mother mus’ watch out right smart. 
Cuz, co’se, de same thing might ’appen ter any li’l’ 
boy. ’N’ dat ’s w’y dey mus’ learn ’em ter do right, ’n’ 
read ’em de Bible, ’n’ run down ter Jones’s corner 
after ’em. Cuz dey ’ll git inter right smart o’ trouble 
ef dey doan’t. ’N’ ’specially ’bout de age o’ twelve 
years old.” 

“And so that is the endf Well, supposing you sit 
down, Ezekiel, and finish it.” 

The three little boys had gone, feeling that they had 
had a rather strenuous and impressive half hour, and 
Ezekiel turned in the doorway and looked back again 
at Miss North. 


380 


“A BOOK FOR MOTHERS” 


“Show your book to Miss Jane, Ezekiel, if you see 
her. I think — perhaps she would like it. Good- 
night.” 

“’Night, Mis’ No’th.” 

The next morning Miss North was at school early 
again. So also was Ezekiel. 

For some minutes she worked quietly at her desk, 
and he sat in his seat, while his eyes wandered dreamily 
around the room. Then she pushed a pile of papers 
into her desk drawer and looked up. 

“Did you read your book to Miss Jane last night, 
Ezekiel?” 

“Yas’m.” 

“And how did she like it? What did she say about 
it?” 

“ Say it doan’ soun’ like r’al sense, ’n’ say she reckon 
I’se wastin’ my time. Say she reckon I better frow it 
’way ’n’ jes’ put my mine on my books.” 

“Throw it away?” 

“Yas’m. But I ain’ frow it ’way,” he went on cheer- 
fully — “no’m; I jes’ burn it up.” 

“What? What did you say, Ezekiel?” 

“I ain’ frow it ’way — no’m; I jes’ burn it up.” 

“Burned it up!” Miss North found herself feebly 
recalling the fate of the “French Revolution.” “ Burned 
it up ! Why — why did you bum it up? ” 

“Well, yer see, ’long ’s I’se finish it, I jes’ *cide I ain’ 
gwine bother no mo’ wid it; so I jes’ burn it right up. 
But” — he looked a bit regretful — “but I — I reckon 
I could write yer anurrer book — ef yer feels dat-a-way 
381 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


’bout it, Miss No’th! W’y, I reckon I could write 
anurrer one — jes’ ez good — Miss No’th!” 

“I don’t doubt that you could, my child; I don’t 
doubt it.” 

She smiled in a way that he hardly understood, and 
glanced up at the clock. Then they both remembered 
a conversation which they had had the morning before. 

“No, you needn’t write me another one, Ezekiel. 
You know you are going to begin and work hard now.” 

The soft, dreamy, willing little dark face looked back 
into hers, and suddenly, in a vivid, flashing moment, 
she felt the full meaning of a bitter truth — of a child- 
like, willing, erring race transplanted from the gentle 
drift of an Oriental country to the stern, exacting West 
— surrounded there by another people, uncomprehend- 
ing and impatient. In the full light of the moment she 
felt ashamed that she should have ever been less 
realizing — should have ever been found wanting in 
her part, so simple compared with theirs. 

“Yes, Ezekiel,” she repeated mechanically, “you 
are going — to work hard.” 

“ Yas’m,” he murmured. “I’s gwine try.” 


MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY 

By Harriet Beecher Stowe 

O NE morning, while Miss Ophelia was busy in some 
of her domestic cares, St. Clare’s voice was heard, 
calling her at the foot of the stairs. 

“Come down here, cousin; I ’ve something to show 
you.” 

“What is it?” said Miss Ophelia, coming down, with 
her sewing in her hand. 

“I ’ve made a purchase for your department — see 
here,” said St. Clare; and, with the word, he pulled 
along a little negro girl, about eight or nine years of age. 

She was one of the blackest of her race; and her 
round, shining eyes, glittering as glass beads, moved 
with quick and restless glances over everything in the 
room. Her mouth, half open with astonishment at the 
wonders of the new Mas’r’s parlor, displayed a white 
and brilliant set of teeth. Her woolly hair was braided 
in sundry little tails, which stuck out in every direction. 
The expression of her face was an odd mixture of 
shrewdness and cunning, over which was oddly drawn, 
like a kind of veil, an expression of the most doleful 
gravity and solemnity. She was dressed in a single 
filthy, ragged garment, made of bagging; and stood 
with her hands demurely folded before her. Altogether, 
there was something odd and goblin-like about her 
383 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

appearance — something, as Miss Ophelia afterwards 
said, “so heathenish,” as to inspire that good lady with 
utter dismay; and, turning to St. Clare, she said: — 

“Augustine, what in the world have you brought 
that thing here for? ” 

“For you to educate, to be sure, and train in the way 
she should go. I thought she was rather a funny speci- 
men in the Jim Crow line. Here, Topsy,” he added, giv- 
ing a whistle, as a man would to call the attention of a dog, 
“ give us a song, now, and show us some of your dancing.” 

The black, glassy eyes glittered with a kind of wicked 
drollery, and the thing struck up, in a clear shrill voice, 
an odd negro melody, to which she kept time with her 
hands and feet, spinning round, clapping her hands, 
knocking her knees together, in a wild, fantastic sort 
of time, and producing in her throat all those odd 
guttural sounds which distinguish the native music of 
her race; and finally, turning a somerset or two, and 
giving a prolonged closing note, as odd and unearthly as 
that of a steam whistle, she came suddenly down on 
the carpet, and stood with her hands folded, and a most 
sanctimonious expression of meekness and solemnity 
over her face, only broken by the cunning glances which 
she shot askance from the corners of her eyes. 

Miss Ophelia stood silent, perfectly paralyzed with 
amazement. 

St. Clare, like a mischievous fellow as he was, ap- 
peared to enjoy her astonishment; and, addressing the 
child again, said: “Topsy, this is your new mistress. 
I 'm going to give you up to her; see, now, that you 
behave yourself.” 


384 





TOFSY 








-Wv”. 


\ \> 




































■ 











- 



MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY 


“Yes, Mas’r,” said Topsy, with sanctimonious 
gravity, her wicked eyes twinkling as she spoke. 

“You ’re going to be good, Topsy, you understand,” 
said St. Clare. 

“Oh, yes, Mas’r,” said Topsy, with another twinkle, 
her hands still devoutly folded. 

“Now, Augustine, what upon earth is this for?” said 
Miss Ophelia. “Your house is so full of these little 
plagues, now, that a body can’t set down their foot 
without treading on ’em. I get up in the morning, and 
find one asleep behind the door, and see one black head 
poking out from under the table, one lying on the door- 
mat — and they are mopping and mowing and grinning 
between all the railings, and tumbling over the kitchen 
floor! What on earth did you want to bring this one 
for?” 

“For you to educate — did n’t I tell you? You ’re 
always preaching about educating. I thought I would 
make you a present of a fresh-caught specimen, and let 
you try your hand on her, and bring her up in the way 
she should go.” 

“7 don’t want her, I am sure; — I have more to do 
with ’em now than I want to.” 

“That ’s you Christians, all over! — you ’ll get up a 
society, and get some poor missionary to spend all his 
days among just such heathen. But let me see one of 
you that would take one into your house with you, and 
take the labor of their conversion on yourselves! No; 
when it comes to that, they are dirty and disagreeable, 
and it ’s too much care, and so on.” 

“Augustine, you know I did n’t think of it in that 
385 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

light,” said Miss Ophelia, evidently softening. “Well, 
it might be a real missionary work,” said she, looking 
rather more favorably on the child. 

St. Clare had touched the right string. Miss Ophe- 
lia’s conscientiousness was ever on the alert. “But,” 
she added, “I really did n’t see the need of buying this 
one; — there are enough now, in your house, to take 
all my time and skill.” 

“Well, then, cousin,” said St. Clare, drawing her 
aside, “I ought to beg your pardon for my good-for- 
nothing speeches. You are so good, after all, that 
there ’s no sense in them. Why, the fact is, this concern 
belonged to a couple of drunken creatures that keep a 
low restaurant that I have to pass by every day, and 
I was tired of hearing her screaming, and them beating 
and swearing at her. She looked bright and funny, too, 
as if something might be made of her — so I bought 
her, and I ’ll give her to you. Try, now, and give her a 
good orthodox New England bringing up, and see what 
it ’ll make of her. You know I have n’t any gift that 
way; but I ’d like you to try.” 

“Well, I ’ll do what I can,” said Miss Ophelia; and 
and she approached her new subject very much as a 
person might be supposed to approach a black spider, 
supposing her to have benevolent designs toward it. 

“She ’s dreadfully dirty, and half naked,” she said. 

“Well, take her down stairs, and make some of them 
clean and clothe her up.” 

Miss Ophelia carried her to the kitchen regions. 

“Don’t see what Mas’r St. Clare wants of ’nother 
nigger!” said Dinah, surveying the new arrival with no 
386 


MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY 

friendly air. “Won’t have her round under my feet, I 
know!” 

“Pah!” said Rosa and Jane, with supreme disgust; 
“let her keep out of our way! What in the world Mas’r 
wanted another of these low niggers for, I can’t see.” 

“You go ’long! No more nigger dan you be, Miss 
Rosa,” said Dinah, who felt this last remark a reflection 
on herself. “You seem to tink yourself white folks. 
You an’t nerry one, black nor white. I ’d like to be 
one or turrer.” 

Miss Ophelia saw that there was nobody in the camp 
that would undertake to oversee the cleansing and 
dressing of the new arrival; and so she was forced to do 
it herself, with some very ungracious and reluctant 
assistance from Jane. 

It is not for ears polite to hear the particulars of the 
first toilet of a neglected, abused child. In fact, in this 
world, multitudes must live and die in a state that it 
would be too great a shock to the nerves of their fellow- 
mortals even to hear described. Miss Ophelia had a 
good, strong, practical deal of resolution; and she went 
through all the disgusting details with heroic thorough- 
ness, though, it must be confessed, with no very gracious 
air — for endurance was the utmost to which her 
principles could bring her. When she saw, on the back 
and shoulders of the child, great welts and calloused 
spots, ineffaceable marks of the system under which 
she had grown up thus far, her heart became pitiful 
within her. 

“See there!” said Jane, pointing to the marks, 
“don’t that show she ’s a limb? We ’ll have fine works 
387 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

with her, I reckon. I hate these nigger young uns! so 
disgusting! I wonder that Mas’r would buy her!” 

The “young un” alluded to heard all these comments 
with the subdued and doleful air which seemed habitual 
to her, only scanning, with a keen and furtive glance of 
her flickering eyes, the ornaments which Jane wore in 
her ears. When arrayed at last in a suit of decent and 
whole clothing, her hair cropped short to her head, Miss 
Ophelia, with some satisfaction, said she looked more 
Christian-like than she did, and in her own mind began 
to mature some plans for her instruction. 

Sitting down before her, she began to question her. 

“How old are you, Topsy?” 

“Dunno, Missis,” said the image, with a grin that 
showed all her teeth. 

“Don’t know how old you are? Did n’t anybody ever 
tell you? Who was your mother?” 

“Never had none!” said the child, with another grin. 

“Never had any mother? What do you mean? 
Where were you born?” 

“Never was born!” persisted Topsy, with another 
grin, that looked so goblin-like, that, if Miss Ophelia 
had been at all nervous, she might have fancied that 
she had got hold of some sooty gnome from the land of 
Diablerie; but Miss Ophelia was not nervous, but plain 
and business-like, and she said, with some sternness: — 

“You must n’t answer me in that way, child; I ’m 
not playing with you. Tell me where you were born, 
and who your father and mother were.” 

“Never was born,” reiterated the creature, more 
emphatically; “never had no father nor mother, nor 
388 


MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY 

nothin’. I was raised by a speculator, with lots of 
others. Old Aunt Sue used to take car on us.” 

The child was evidently sincere; and Jane, breaking 
into a short laugh, said — 

“ Laws, Missis, there ’s heaps of ’em. Speculators 
buys ’em up cheap, when they ’s little, and gets ’em 
raised for market.” 

“How long have you lived with your master and 
mistress? ” 

“Dunno, Missis.” 

“Is it a year, or more, or less?” 

“Dunno, Missis.” 

“Laws, Missis, those low negroes, — they can’t tell; 
they don’t know anything about time,” said Jane; 
“they don’t know what a year is; they don’t know their 
own ages.” 

“Have you ever heard anything about God, Topsy?” 

The child looked bewildered, but grinned as usual. 

“Do you know who made you?” 

“Nobody, as I knows on,” said the child, with a short 
laugh. 

The idea appeared to amuse her considerably; for 
her eyes twinkled, and she added — 

“I spect I grow’d. Don’t think nobody never made 
me.” 

“Do you know how to sew?” said Miss Ophelia, who 
thought she would turn her inquiries to something more 
tangible. 

“No, Missis.” 

“What can you do? — what did you do for your 
master and mistress?” 


389 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“Fetch water, and wash dishes, and rub knives, and 
wait on folks.” 

“Were they good to you?” 

“Spect they was,” said the child, scanning Miss 
Ophelia cunningly. 

Miss Ophelia rose from this encouraging colloquy; 
St. Clare was leaning over the back of her chair. 

“You find virgin soil there, cousin; put in your own 
ideas — you won’t find many to pull up.” 

Miss Ophelia’s ideas of education, like all her other 
ideas, were very set and definite; and of the kind that 
prevailed in New England a century ago, and which 
are still preserved in some very retired and unsophisti- 
cated parts, where there are no railroads. As nearly as 
could be expressed, they could be comprised in very few 
words: to teach them to mind when they were spoken 
to; to teach them the catechism, sewing, and reading; 
and to whip them if they told lies. And though, of 
course, in the flood of light that is now poured on educa- 
tion, these are left far away in the rear, yet it is an 
undisputed fact that our grandmothers raised some 
tolerably fair men and women under this regime, as 
many of us can remember and testify. At all events, 
Miss Ophelia knew of nothing else to do; and, there- 
fore, applied her mind to her heathen with the best 
diligence she could command. 

The child was announced and considered in the family 
as Miss Ophelia’s girl; and, as she was looked upon 
with no gracious eye in the kitchen, Miss Ophelia 
resolved to confine her sphere of operation and instruc- 
tion chiefly to her own chamber. With a self-sacrifice 
390 


MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY 

which some of our readers will appreciate, she resolved, 
instead of comfortably making her own bed, sweeping 
and dusting her own chamber — which she had 
hitherto done, in utter scorn of all offers of help from 
the chambermaid of the establishment — to condemn 
herself to the martyrdom of instructing Topsy to per- 
form these operations — ah, woe the day ! Did any of 
our readers ever do the same, they will appreciate the 
amount of her self-sacrifice. 

Miss Ophelia began with Topsy by taking her into her 
chamber, the first morning, and solemnly commencing 
a course of instruction in the art and mystery of bed- 
making. Behold, then, Topsy, washed and shorn of 
all the little braided tails wherein her heart had de- 
lighted, arrayed in a clean gown, with well-starched 
apron, standing reverently before Miss Ophelia, with 
an expression of solemnity well befitting a funeral. 

“Now, Topsy, I ’m going to show you just how my 
bed is to be made. I am very particular about my bed. 
You must learn exactly how to do it.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” says Topsy, with a deep sigh, and a 
face of woeful earnestness. 

“Now, Topsy, look here; — this is the hem of the 
sheet — this is the right side of the sheet, and this is 
the wrong; — will you remember?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” says Topsy, with another sigh. 

“Well, now, the under sheet you must bring over 
the bolster — so — and tuck it clear down under the 
mattress nice and smooth — so — do you see? ” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Topsy, with profound attention. 

“But the upper sheet,” said Miss Ophelia, “must be 
391 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


brought down in this way, and tucked under firm and 
smooth at the foot — so — the narrow hem at the 
foot.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Topsy, as before; but we will 
add, what Miss Ophelia did not see, that, during the 
time when the good lady’s back was turned, in the zeal 
of her manipulations, the young disciple had contrived 
to snatch a pair of gloves and a ribbon, which she had 
adroitly slipped into her sleeves, and stood with her 
hands dutifully folded, as before. 

“Now, Topsy, let’s see you do this,” said Miss 
Ophelia, pulling off the clothes, and seating herself. 

Topsy, with great gravity and adroitness, went 
through the exercise completely to Miss Ophelia’s 
satisfaction; smoothing the sheets, patting out every 
wrinkle, and exhibiting, through the whole process, a 
gravity and seriousness with which her instructress 
was greatly edified. By an unlucky slip, however, a 
fluttering fragment of the ribbon hung out of one of her 
sleeves, just as she was finishing, and caught Miss 
Ophelia’s attention. Instantly she pounced upon it. 
“What ’s this? You naughty, wicked child, — you ’ve 
been stealing this!” 

The ribbon was pulled out of Topsy’s own sleeve, 
yet was she not in the least disconcerted; she only 
looked at it with an air of the most surprised and uncon- 
scious innocence. 

“Laws! why, that ar ’s Miss Feely’s ribbon, ain’t it? 
How could it ’a’ got caught in my sleeve?” 

“Topsy, you naughty girl, don’t you tell me a lie — 
you stole that ribbon!” 


392 


MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY 


“Missis, I declar for ’t, I didn’t; — never seed it 
till dis yer blessed minnit.” 

“Topsy,” said Miss Ophelia, “don’t you know it ’s 
wicked to tell lies?” 

“I never tells no lies, Miss Feely,” said Topsy, with 
virtuous gravity; “it’s jist the truth I ’ve been a tellin’ 
now, and an’t nothin’ else.” 

“Topsy, I shall have to whip you, if you tell 
lies so.” 

“Laws, Missis, if you ’s to whip all day, could n’t say 
no other way,” said Topsy, beginning to blubber. “I 
never seed dat ar — it must a got caught in my sleeve. 
Miss Feely must have left it on the bed, and it got 
caught in the clothes, and so got in my sleeve.” 

Miss Ophelia was so indignant at the barefaced lie, 
that she caught the child, and shook her. 

“Don’t you tell me that again!” 

The shake brought the gloves on the floor, from the 
other sleeve. 

“There, you!” said Miss Ophelia, “will you tell me 
now, you did n’t steal the ribbon?” 

Topsy now confessed to the gloves, but still persisted 
in denying the ribbon. 

“Now, Topsy,” said Miss Ophelia, “if you ’ll confess 
all about it, I won’t whip you this time.” 

Thus adjured, Topsy confessed to the ribbon and 
gloves, with woful protestations of penitence. 

“Well, now, tell me. I know you must have taken 
other things since you have been in the house, for I let 
you run about all day yesterday. Now, tell me if you 
took anything, and I shan’t whip you.” 

393 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“Laws, Missis! I took Miss Eva’s red thing she wars 
on her neck.” 

“You did, you naughty child! — Well, what else?” 

“I took Rosa’s yerrings, — them red ones.” 

“Go bring them to me this minute, both of ’em.” 

“Laws, Missis! I can’t, — they ’s burnt up!” 

“Burnt up! — what a story! Go get ’em, or I’ll 
whip you.” 

Topsy, with loud protestations, and tears, and groans, 
declared that she could not. “They ’s burnt up — they 
was.” 

“What did you burn ’em up for?” said Miss 
Ophelia. 

“ ’Cause I ’s wicked — I is. I ’s mighty wicked, any- 
how. I can’t help it.” 

Just at this moment, Eva came innocently into the 
room, with the identical coral necklace on her neck. 

“Why, Eva, where did you get your necklace?” said 
Miss Ophelia. 

“ Get it? Why, I ’ve had it on all day,” said Eva. 

“Did you have it on yesterday?” 

“Yes; and what is funny, Aunty, I had it on all 
night. I forgot to take it off when I went to bed.” 

Miss Ophelia looked perfectly bewildered; the more 
so, as Rosa, at that instant, came into the room, with a 
basket of newly ironed linen poised on her head, and the 
coral eardrops shaking in her ears! 

“I’m sure I can’t tell anything what to do with such 
a child!” she said, in despair. “What in the world did 
you tell me you took those things for, Topsy?” 

“Why, Missis said I must ’fess; and I couldn’t 
394 


MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY 

think of nothin’ else to ’fess,” said Topsy, rubbing her 
eyes. 

“But, of course, I did n’t want you to confess things 
you did n’t do,” said Miss Ophelia; “that ’s telling a 
lie, just as much as the other.” 

“Laws, now, is it?” said Topsy, with an air of inno- 
cent wonder. 

“La, there ain’t any such thing as truth in that 
limb,” said Rosa, looking indignantly at Topsy. “If 
I was Mas’r St. Clare, I ’d whip her till the blood run. 
I would, — I ’d let her catch it.” 

“No, no, Rosa,” said Eva, with an air of command, 
which the child could assume at times; “you must n’t 
talk so, Rosa. I can’t bear to hear it.” 

“La sakes! Miss Eva, you ’s so good, you don’t 
know nothing how to get along with niggers. There ’s 
no way but to cut ’em well up, I tell ye.” 

“Rosa!” said Eva, “hush! Don’t you say another 
word of that sort!” And the eye of the child flashed, 
and her cheek deepened its color. 

Rosa was cowed in a moment. 

“Miss Eva has got the St. Clare blood in her, that ’s 
plain. She can speak, for all the world, just like her 
papa,” she said, as she passed out of the room. 

Eva stood looking at Topsy. 

There stood the two children, representatives of the 
two extremes of society. The fair, high-bred child 
with her golden head, her deep eyes, her spiritual, noble 
brow, and princelike movements; and her black, keen, 
subtle, cringing, yet acute neighbor. They stood the 
representatives of their races. The Saxon, born of 
395 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


ages of cultivation, command, education, physical and 
moral eminence; the Afric, born of ages of oppression, 
submission, ignorance, toil, and vice! 

Something, perhaps, of such thoughts struggled 
through Eva’s mind. But a child’s thoughts are rather 
dim, undefined instincts; and in Eva’s noble nature 
many such were yearning and working, for which she 
had no power of utterance. When Miss Ophelia ex- 
patiated on Topsy’s naughty, wicked conduct, the child 
looked perplexed and sorrowful, but said sweetly : — 

“Poor Topsy, why need you steal? You ’re going to 
be taken good care of, now. I ’m sure I’d rather give 
you anything of mine, than have you steal it.” 

It was the first word of kindness the child had ever 
heard in her life; and the sweet tone and manner struck 
strangely on the wild, rude heart, and a sparkle of some- 
thing like a tear shone in the keen, round, glittering eye; 
but it was followed by the short laugh and habitual 
grin. No! the ear that has never heard anything but 
abuse is strangely incredulous of anything so heavenly 
as kindness; and Topsy only thought Eva’s speech 
something funny and inexplicable — she did not believe 
it. 

But what was to be done with Topsy? Miss Ophelia 
found the case a puzzler; her rules for bringing up 
did n’t seem to apply. She thought she would take time 
to think of it; and by the way of gaining time, and in 
hopes of some indefinite moral virtues supposed to be 
inherent in dark closets, Miss Ophelia shut Topsy up 
in one till she had arranged her ideas further on the 
subject. 


396 


MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY 


“I don’t see,” said Miss Ophelia to St. Clare, “how 
I ’m going to manage that child, without whipping 
her.” 

“Well, whip her, then, to your heart’s content; I ’ll 
give you full power to do what you like.” 

“Children always have to be whipped,” said Miss 
Ophelia; “I never heard of bringing them up without.” 

“Oh, well, certainly,” said St. Clare; “do as you 
think best. Only, I ’ll make one suggestion: I ’ve seen 
this child whipped with a poker, knocked down with 
the shovel or tongs, whichever came handiest; and, 
seeing that she is used to that style of operation, I 
think your whippings will have to be pretty energetic, 
to make much impression.” 

“What is to be done with her, then!” said Miss 
Ophelia. 

“You have started a serious question,” said St. 
Clare; “I wish you ’d answer it. What is to be done 
with a human being that can be governed only by the 
lash — that fails, — it ’s a very common state of things 
down here!” 

“I ’m sure I don’t know; I never saw such a child 
as this.” 

“Such children are very common among us, and such 
men and women, too. How are they to be governed?” 
said St. Clare. 

“I ’m sure it ’s more than I can say,” said Miss 
Ophelia. 

“Or I either,” said St. Clare. “The horrid cruelties 
and outrages that once in a while find their way into 
the papers — such cases as Prue’s, for example — 
397 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

what do they come from? In many cases, it is a gradual 
hardening process on both sides — the owner growing 
more and more cruel, as the servant more and more 
callous. Whipping and abuse are like laudanum; you 
have to double the dose as the sensibilities decline. I 
saw this very early when I became an owner; and I 
resolved never to begin, because I did not know when 
I should stop — and I resolved, at least, to protect my 
own moral nature. The consequence is, that my 
servants act like spoiled children; but I think that 
better than for us both to be brutalized together. You 
have talked a great deal about our responsibilities in 
educating, cousin. I really wanted you to try with one 
child, who is a specimen of thousands among us.” 

“It is your system makes such children,” said Miss 
Ophelia. 

“I know it; but they are made — they exist — 
and what is to be done with them?” 

“Well, I can’t say I thank you for the experiment. 
But, then, as it appears to be a duty, I shall persevere 
and try, and do the best I can,” said Miss Ophelia; 
and Miss Ophelia, after this, did labor, with a commend- 
able degree of zeal and energy on her new subject. She 
instituted regular hours and employments for her, and 
undertook to teach her to read and to sew. 

In the former art, the child was quick enough. She 
learned her letters as if by magic, and was very soon 
able to read plain reading; but the sewing was a more 
difficult matter. The creature was as lithe as a cat, and 
as active as a monkey, and the confinement of sewing 
was her abomination; so she broke her needles, threw 
398 


MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY 

them slyly out of windows, or down in chinks of the 
walls; she tangled, broke, and dirtied her thread, or, 
with a sly movement, would throw a spool away alto- 
gether. Her motions were almost as quick as those of 
a practiced conjurer, and her command of her face 
quite as great; and though Miss Ophelia could not help 
feeling that so many accidents could not possibly hap- 
pen in succession, yet she could not, without a watch- 
fulness which would leave her no time for anything else, 
detect her. 

Topsy was soon a noted character in the establish- 
ment. Her talent for every species of drollery, grimace, 
and mimicry — for dancing, tumbling, climbing, sing- 
ing, whistling, imitating every sound that hit her fancy 
— seemed inexhaustible. In her play hours, she invari- 
ably had every child in the establishment at her heels, 
open-mouthed with admiration and wonder — not ex- 
cepting Miss Eva, who appeared to be fascinated by 
her wild diablerie, as a dove is sometimes charmed by a 
glittering serpent. Miss Ophelia was uneasy that Eva 
should fancy Topsy’s society so much, and implored 
St. Clare to forbid it. 

“Poh! let the child alone,” said St. Clare. “Topsy 
will do her good.” 

“But so depraved a child — are you not afraid she 
will teach her some mischief? ” 

“She can’t teach her mischief; she might teach it to 
some children, but evil rolls off Eva’s mind like dew off 
a cabbage-leaf — not a drop sinks in.” 

“Don’t be too sure,” said Miss Ophelia. “I know 
I ’d never let a child of mine play with Topsy.” 

399 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“Well, your children need n’t,” said St. Clare, “but 
mine may; if Eva could have been spoiled it would 
have been done years ago.” 

Topsy was at first despised and contemned by the 
upper servants. They soon found reason to alter their 
opinion. It was very soon discovered that whoever 
cast an indignity on Topsy was sure to meet with some 
inconvenient accident shortly after; — either a pair of 
earrings or some cherished trinket would be missing, or 
an article of dress would be suddenly found utterly 
ruined, or the person would stumble accidentally into 
a pail of hot water, or a libation of dirty slop would un- 
accountably deluge them from above when in full gala 
dress; — and on all these occasions, when investigation 
was made, there was nobody found to stand sponsor for 
the indignity. Topsy was cited, and had up before all 
the domestic judicatories, time and again; but always 
sustained her examinations with most edifying inno- 
cence and gravity of appearance. Nobody in the world 
ever doubted who did the things; but not a scrap of 
any direct evidence could be found to establish the 
suppositions, and Miss Ophelia was too just to feel at 
liberty to proceed to any length without it. 

The mischiefs done were always so nicely timed, also, 
as further to shelter the aggressor. Thus, the times for 
revenge on Rosa and Jane, the two chambermaids, 
were always chosen in those seasons when (as not un- 
frequently happened) they were in disgrace with their 
mistress, when any complaint from them would of 
course meet with no sympathy. 

In short, Topsy soon made the household understand 
400 


MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY 

the propriety of letting her alone; and she was let alone 
accordingly. 

Topsy was smart and energetic in all manual opera- 
tions, learning everything that was taught her with 
surprising quickness. With a few lessons, she had 
learned to do the proprieties of Miss Ophelia’s chamber 
in a way with which even that particular lady could 
find no fault. Mortal hands could not lay spread 
smoother, adjust pillows more accurately, sweep and 
dust and arrange more perfectly, than Topsy, when 
she chose, — but she did n’t very often choose. If Miss 
Ophelia, after three or four days of careful and patient 
supervision, was so sanguine as to suppose that Topsy 
had at last fallen into her way, could do without over- 
looking, and so go off and busy herself about something 
else, Topsy would hold a perfect carnival of confusion, 
for some one or two hours. Instead of making the 
bed, she would amuse herself with pulling off the pillow- 
cases, butting her woolly head among the pillows, till 
it would sometimes be grotesquely ornamented with 
feathers sticking out in various directions; she would 
climb the posts, and hang head downward from the 
tops; flourish the sheets and spreads all over the de- 
partment; dress the bolster up in Miss Ophelia’s night- 
clothes, and enact various scenic performances with 
that — singing and whistling, and making grimaces at 
herself in the looking-glass; in short, as Miss Ophelia 
phrased it, “raising Cain” generally. 

On one occasion, Miss Ophelia found Topsy with her 
very best scarlet India Canton crape shawl wound 
around her head for a turban, going on with her re- 
401 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


hearsals before the glass in great style — Miss Ophelia 
having, with carelessness most unheard of in her, left 
the key for once in her drawer. 

“Topsy!” she would say, when at the end of all 
patience, “what does make you act so?” 

“Dunno, Missis, — I spects ’cause I ’s so wicked!” 

“I don’t know anything what I shall do with you, 
Topsy.” 

“Law, Missis, you must whip me; my old Missis 
allers whipped me. I an’t used to workin’ unless I gets 
whipped.” 

“Why, Topsy, I don’t want to whip you. You can 
do well, if you ’ve a mind to; what is the reason you 
won’t?” 

“Laws, Missis, I ’s used to whippin’; I spects it ’s 
good for me.” 

Miss Ophelia tried the recipe, and Topsy invariably 
made a terrible commotion, screaming, groaning, and 
imploring, though half an hour afterwards, when 
roosted on some projection of the balcony, and sur- 
rounded by a flock of admiring “young uns,” she would 
express the utmost contempt of the whole affair. 

“Law, Miss Feely whip! — wouldn’t kill a skeeter, 
her whippin’s. Oughter see how old Mas’r made the 
flesh fly; old Mas’r know’d how ! ” 

Topsy always made great capital of her own sins 
and enormities, evidently considering them as some- 
thing peculiarly distinguishing. 

“Law, you niggers,” she would say to some of her 
auditors, “ does you know you ’s all sinners? Well, you 
is — everybody is. White folks is sinners too — Miss 
402 


MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY 

Feely says so; but I spects niggers is the biggest ones; 
but lor! ye an’t any on ye up to me. I ’s so awful 
wicked there can’t nobody do nothin’ with me. I used 
to keep old Missis a swarin’ at me half de time. I 
spects I ’s the wickedest crittur in the world;” and 
Topsy would cut a somerset, and come up brisk and 
shining on to a higher perch, and evidently plume her- 
self on the distinction. 

Miss Ophelia busied herself very earnestly on Sun- 
days, teaching Topsy the catechism. Topsy had an 
uncommon verbal memory and committed with a 
fluency that greatly encouraged her instructress. 

“What good do you expect it is going to do her? ” said 
St. Clare. 

“Why, it always has done children good. It ’s what 
children always have to learn, you know,” said Miss 
Ophelia. 

“Understand it or not,” said St. Clare. 

“Oh, children never understand it at the time; but, 
after they are grown up, it ’ll come to them.” 

“Mine hasn’t come to me yet,” said St. Clare, 
“though I ’ll bear testimony that you put it into me 
pretty thoroughly when I was a boy.” 

“Ah, you were always good at learning, Augustine. 
I used to have great hopes of you,” said Miss Ophelia. 

“Well, have n’t you now?” said St. Clare. 

“I wish you were as good as you were when you were 
a boy, Augustine.” 

“So do I, that’s a fact, cousin,” said St. Clare. 
“Well, go ahead and catechise Topsy; maybe you ’ll 
make out something yet.” 

403 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

Topsy, who had stood like a black statue during 
this discussion, with hands decently folded, now, at a 
signal from Miss Ophelia, went on — 

“Our first parents, being left to the freedom of their 
own will, fell from the state wherein they were created.” 

Topsy ’s eyes twinkled, and she looked inquiringly. 

“What is it, Topsy?” said Miss Ophelia. 

“Please, Missis, was dat ar state Kintuck?” 

“What state, Topsy?” 

“Dat state dey fell out of. I used to hear Mas’r tell 
how we came down from Kintuck.” 

St. Clare laughed. 

“You ’ll have to give her a meaning, or she ’ll make 
one,” said he. “There seems to be a theory of emigra- 
tion suggested there.” 

“Oh, Augustine, be still,” said Miss Ophelia; “how 
can I do anything, if you will be laughing?” 

“Well, I won’t disturb the exercises again, on my 
honor;” and St. Clare took his paper into the parlor, 
and sat down till Topsy had finished her recitations. 
They were all very well, only that now and then she 
would oddly transpose some important words, and 
persist in the mistake, in spite of every effort to the 
contrary; and St. Clare, after all his promises of good- 
ness, took a wicked pleasure in these mistakes, calling 
Topsy to him whenever he had a mind to amuse him- 
self, and getting her to repeat the offending passages, 
in spite of Miss Ophelia’s remonstrances. 

“How do you think I can do anything with the 
child, if you will go on so, Augustine?” she would say. 

“Well, it is too bad — I won’t again; but I do like 
404 


MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY 

to hear the droll little image stumble over those big 
words!” 

“But you confirm her in the wrong way.” 

“What ’s the odds? One word is as good as another 
to her.” 

“You wanted me to bring her up right; and you 
ought to remember she is a reasonable creature, and be 
careful of your influence over her.” 

“Oh, dismal! so I ought; but, as Topsy herself says, 
‘I ’s so wicked!’ ” 

In very much this way Topsy ’s training proceeded, 
for a year or two — Miss Ophelia worrying herself, 
from day to day, with her, as a kind of chronic plague, 
to whose inflictions she became, in time, as accustomed 
as persons sometimes do to the neuralgia or sick head- 
ache. 

St. Clare took the same kind of amusement in the 
child that a man might in the tricks of a parrot or a 
pointer. Topsy, whenever her sins brought her into 
disgrace in other quarters, always took refuge behind 
his chair; and St. Clare, in one way or other, would 
make peace for her. From him she got many a stray 
picayune, which she laid out in nuts and candies, and 
distributed, with careless generosity, to all the children 
in the family; for Topsy, to do her justice, was good- 
natured and liberal, and only spiteful in self-defence. 


CHAD 

By F . Hopkinson Smith 

I T was some time before I could quiet the old man’s 
anxieties and coax him back into his usual good 
humor, and then only when I began to ask him of the 
old plantation days. 

Then he fell to talking about the colonel’s father, 
General John Carter, and the high days at Carter Hall 
when Miss Nancy was a young lady and the colonel a 
boy home from the university. 

“Dem was high times. We ain’t neber seed no time 
like dat since de war. Git up in de mawnin’ an’ look 
out ober de lawn, an’ yer come fo’teen or fifteen couples 
ob de fustest quality folks, all on horseback ridin’ in de 
gate. Den such a scufflin’ round! Old marsa an’ missis 
out on de po’ch, an’ de little pickaninnies runnin’ from 
de quarters, an’ all hands helpin’ ’em off de horses, an’ 
dey all smokin’ hot wid de gallop up de lane. 

“An’ den sich a breakfast an’ sich dancin’ an’ co’tin’; 
ladies all out on de lawn in der white dresses, an’ de 
gemmen in fairtop boots, an’ Mammy Jane runnin’ round 
same as a chicken wid its head off — an’ der heads was 
off befo’ dey knowed it, an’ dey a-br’ilin’ on de gridiron. 

“Dat would go on a week or mo’, an’ den up dey ’ll 
all git an’ away dey ’d go to de nex’ plantation, an’ take 
Miss Nancy along wid ’em on her little sorrel mare, an’ 
406 


CHAD 

I on Marsa John’s black horse, to take care bofe of ’em. 
Dem was times ! 

“My old marsa” — and his eyes glistened — “my 
old Marse John was a gemman, sah, like dey don’t see 
nowadays. Tall, sah, an’ straight as a cornstalk; hair 
white an’ silky as de tassel; an’ a voice like de birds was 
singin’, it was dat sweet. 

“ ‘Chad,’ he use’ ter say — you know I was young 
den, an’ I was his body servant — ‘ Chad, come yer 
till I bre’k yo’ head; an’ den when I come he ’d laugh 
fit to kill hisself . Dat ’s when you do right. But when 
you was a low-down nigger an’ got de debbil in yer, an’ 
ole marsa hear it an’ send de oberseer to de quarters 
for you to come to de little room in de big house whar 
de walls was all books an’ whar his desk was, ’t wa’n’t 
no birds about his voice den — mo’ like de thunder.” 

“Did he whip his negroes?” 

“No, sah; don’t reckelmember a single lick laid on 
airy nigger dat de marsa knowed of; but when dey got 
so bad — an’ some niggers is dat way — den dey was 
sold to de swamp Ian’s. He would n’t hab ’em round 
’ruptin’ his niggers, he use’ ter say. 

“Hab coffee, sah? Won’t take I a minute to bile it. 
Colonel ain’t been drinkin’ none lately, an’ so I don’t 
make none.” 

I nodded my head, and Chad closed the door softly, 
taking with him a small cup and saucer, and returning 
in a few minutes followed by that most delicious of all 
aromas, the savory steam of boiling coffee. 

“My Marsa John,” he continued, filling the cup with 
the smoking beverage, “never drank nuffin’ but tea, 
407 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


eben at de big dinners when all de gemmen had coffee 
in de little cups — dat’s one ob ’em you’s drinkin’ out 
ob now; dey ain’t mo’ dan fo’ on ’em left. Old marsa 
would have his pot ob tea; Henny use’ ter make it for 
him; makes it now for Miss Nancy. 

“Henny was a young gal den, long ’fo’ we was 
married. Henny b ’longed to Colonel Lloyd Barbour, 
on de next plantation to oum. 

“Mo’ coffee, Major?” I handed Chad the empty 
cup. He refilled it, and went straight on without draw- 
ing breath. 

“ Wust scrape I eber got into wid old Marsa John was 
ober Henny. I tell ye she was a harricane in dem days. 
She came into de kitchen one time where I was helpin’ 
git de dinner ready an’ de cook had gone to de spring 
house, an’ she says : — 

“ 4 Chad, what ye cookin’ dat smells so nice? ’ 

44 4 Dat’s a goose,’ I says, ‘cookin’ for Marsa John’s 
dinner. We got quality,’ says I, pointin’ to de dinin’- 
room do’. 

44 4 Quality ! ’ she says. 4 Spec’ I know what de quality 
is. Dat ’s for you an’ de cook.’ 

“Wid dat she grabs a caarvin’ knife from de table, 
opens de do’ ob de big oven, cuts off a leg ob de goose, 
an’ dis ’pears round de kitchen corner wid de leg in her 
mouf. ’Fo’ I knowed whar I was Marsa John come 
to de kitchen do’ an’ says, ‘Gittin’ late, Chad; bring 
in de dinner.’ You see, Major, dey ain’t no up an’ 
down stairs in de big house, like it is yer; kitchen an’ 
dinin’ room all on de same flo’. 

“Wall, sah, I was scared to def, but I tuk dat goose 
408 


CHAD 

an’ laid him wid de cut side down on de bottom of de 
pan ’fo’ de cook got back, put some dressin’ an’ stuffin’ 
ober him, an’ shet de stove do’. Den I tuk de sweet 
potatoes an’ de hominy an’ put ’em on de table, an* 
den I went back in de kitchen to git de baked ham. I 
put on de ham an’ some mo’ dishes, an’ marsa says, 
lookin’ up : — 

“ ‘I t’ought dere was a roast goose, Chad?’ 

“ ‘I ain’t yerd nothin’ ’bout no goose,’ I says. ‘I ’ll 
ask de cook.’ 

“Next minute I yerd old marsa a-hollerin’: — 

“ ‘Mammy Jane, ain’t we got a goose?’ 

“ ‘Lord-a-massy ! yes, marsa. Chad, you wu’thless 
nigger, ain’t you tuk dat goose out yit? ’ 

“ ‘Is we got a goose? ’ said I. 

“ ‘Is we got a goose? Did n’t you help pick it?’ 

“I see whar my hair was short, an’ I snatched up a 
hot dish from de hearth, opened de oven do’, an’ slide 
de goose in jes as he was an’ lay him down befo’ Marsa 
John. 

“ ‘Now see what de ladies ’ll have for dinner,’ says 
old marsa, pickin’ up his caarvin’ knife. 

“‘What’ll you take for dinner, miss?’ says I. 
‘Baked ham?’ 

“ ‘No,’ she says, lookin’ up to whar Marsa John sat: 
‘I think I ’ll take a leg ob dat goose’ — jes so. 

“Well, marsa cut off de leg an’ put a little stuffin’ 
an’ gravy on wid a spoon, an’ says to me, ‘Chad, see 
what dat gemman ’ll have.’ 

“ ‘What ’ll you take for dinner, sah?’ says I. ‘Nice 
breast o’ goose, or slice o’ ham?’ 

409 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“ ‘No; I think I ’ll take a leg of dat goose,’ he says. 

“I didn’t say miffin’, but I knowed bery well he 
wa’n’t a-gwine to git it. 

“But, Major, you oughter seen old marsa lookin’ for 
der udder leg ob dat goose! He rolled him ober on de 
dish, dis way an’ dat way, an’ den he jabbed dat ole 
bone-handled caarvin’ fork in him an’ hel’ him up ober 
de dish an’ looked under him an’ on top ob him, an’ 
den he says, kinder sad like: — 

“ ‘Chad, whar is de udder leg ob dat goose?’ 

“ ‘It did n’t hab none,’ says I. 

“ ‘You mean ter say, Chad, dat de gooses on my 
plantation on’y got one leg? ’ 

“ ‘Some ob ’em has an’ some ob ’em ain’t. You see, 
marsa, we got two kinds in de pond, an’ we was a little 
boddered today, so Mammy Jane cooked dis one ’cause 
I cotched it fust.’ 

“ ‘Well,’ said he, lookin’ like he look when he send 
for you in de little room, ‘ I ’ll settle wid ye after dinner.’ 

“Well, dar I was shiverin’ an’ shakin’ in my shoes, 
an ’droppin’ gravy an’ spillin’ de wine on de tablecloth, 
I was dat shuck up; an’ when de dinner was ober he 
calls all de ladies an’ gemmen, an’ says, ‘Now come 
down to de duck pond. I ’m gwineter show dis nigger 
dat all de gooses on my plantation got mo’ den one leg.’ 

“I followed ’long, trapesin’ after de whole kit an’ 
b’ilin’, an’ when we got to depond” — here Chad nearly 
went into a convulsion with suppressed laughter — 
“dar was de gooses sittin’ on a log in de middle of dat 
ole green goose pond wid one leg stuck down — so — 
an’ de udder tucked under de wing.” 

410 


CHAD 

Chad was now on one leg, balancing himself by my 
chair, the tears running down his cheeks. 

“ ‘Dar, marsa,’ says I, ‘don’t ye see? Look at dat ole 
gray goose! Dat’s de berry match ob de one we had 
to-day.’ 

“Den de ladies all hollered an’ de gemmen laughed 
so loud dey yerd ’em at de big house. 

“ ‘Stop, you black scoun’rel!’ Marsa John says, his 
face gittin’ white an’ he a-jerkin’ his handkerchief from 
his pocket. ‘Shoo!’ 

“Major, I hope to have my brains kicked out by a 
lame grasshopper if ebery one ob dem gooses did n’t 
put down de udder leg! 

“ ‘Now, you lyin’ nigger,’ he says, raisin’ his cane 
ober my head, ‘ I ’ll show you ’ — 

Stop, Marsa J ohn ! ’ I hollered ; ‘ ’t ain’t fair, ’t ain’t 

fair.’ 

“ ‘Why ain’t it fair?’ says he. 

‘“’Cause,’ says I, ‘you didn’t say “Shoo!” to de 
goose what was on de table.’ ” 

Chad laughed until he choked. 

“And did he thrash you?” 

“Marsa John? No, sah. He laughed loud as any- 
body; an’ den dat night he says to me as I was puttin’ 
some wood on de fire: — 

“ ‘ Chad, where did dat leg go? ’ An’ so I ups an’ tells 
him all about Henny, an’ how I was lyin’ ’cause I was 
’feared de gal would git hurt, an’ how she was on’y 
a-foolin’, thinkin’ it was my goose; an’ den de ole marsa 
look in de fire for a long time, an’ den he says : — 

“ ‘Dat ’s Colonel Barbour’s Henny, ain’t it, Chad?’ 

411 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“ ‘Yes/ marsa, says I. 

“Well, de next mawnin’ he had his black horse sad- 
dled, an’ I held the stirrup for him to git on, an’ he rode 
ober to de Barbour plantation, an’ did n’t come back 
till plumb black night. When he come up I held de 
lantern so I could see his face, for I wa’n’t easy in my 
mine all day. But it was all bright an’ shinin’ same as 
a’ angel’s. 

“ ‘Chad,’ he says, handin’ me de reins, ‘I bought yo’ 
Henny dis arternoon from Colonel Barbour, an’ she ’s 
cornin’ ober tomorrow, an’ you can bofe git married 
next Sunday.’ ” 


THE SEARCHINGS OF 
JONATHAN 

By Elisabeth Woodbridge 

W HAT I find it hard to understand is, why a 
person who can see a spray of fringed gentian 
in the middle of a meadow can’t see a book on the 
sitting-room table.” 

“The reason why I can see the gentian,” said 
Jonathan, “is because the gentian is there.” 

“So is the book,” I responded. 

“Which table?” he asked. 

“The one with the lamp on it. It’s a red book, about 
so big.” 

“It isn’t there; but, just to satisfy you, I ’ll look 
again.” 

He returned in a moment with an argumentative 
expression of countenance. “It isn’t there,” he said 
firmly. “Will anything else do instead?” 

“No, I wanted you to read that special thing. Oh, 
dear! And I have all these things in my lap! And I 
know it is there.” 

“And I know it is n’t.” He stretched himself out in 
the hammock and watched me as I rather ostentatiously 
laid down thimble, scissors, needle, cotton, and material 
and set out for the sitting-room table. There were a 
number of books on it, to be sure. I glanced rapidly 
413 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


through the piles, fingered the lower books, pushed 
aside a magazine, and pulled out from beneath it the 
book I wanted. I returned to the hammock and 
handed it over. Then, after possessing myself, again 
rather ostentatiously, of material, cotton, needle, 
scissors, and thimble, I sat down. 

“ It ’s the second essay I specially thought we ’d 
like, ,, I said. 

“Just for curiosity,” said Jonathan, with an im- 
personal air, “where did you find it?” 

“Find what?” I asked innocently. 

“The book.” 

“Oh! On the table.” 

“Which table?” 

“The one with the lamp on it.” 

“I should like to know where.” 

“Why — just there — on the table. There was an 
‘Atlantic’ on top of it, to be sure.” 

“I saw the ‘Atlantic.’ Blest if it looked as though 
it had anything under it! Besides, I was looking for it 
on top of things. You said you laid it down there just 
before luncheon, and I did n’t think it could have 
crawled in under so quick.” 

“When you ’re looking for a thing,” I said, “you 
mustn’t think, you must look. Now go ahead and 
read.” 

If this were a single instance, or even if it were one 
of many illustrating a common human frailty, it would 
hardly be worth setting down. But the frailty under 
consideration has come to seem to me rather particu- 
larly masculine. Are not all the Jonathans in the world 
414 


THE SEARCHINGS OF JONATHAN 

continually being sent to some sitting-room table for 
something, and coming back to assert, with more or less 
pleasantness, according to their temperament, that it 
is not there? The incident, then, is not isolated; it is 
typical of a vast group. For Jonathan, read Everyman; 
for the red book, read any particular thing that you 
want Him to bring; for the sitting-room table, read the 
place where you know it is and Everyman says it is n’t. 

This, at least, is my thesis. It is not, however, un- 
challenged. Jonathan has challenged it when, from 
time to time, as occasion offered, I have lightly sketched 
it out for him. Sometimes he argues that my instances 
are really isolated cases and that their evidence is not 
cumulative, at others he takes refuge in a tu quoque — 
in itself a confession of weakness — and alludes darkly 
to “top shelves” and “bottom drawers.” But let us 
have no mysteries. These phrases, considered as argu- 
ments, have their origin in certain incidents which, 
that all the evidence may be in, I will here set down. 

Once upon a time I asked Jonathan to get me some- 
thing from the top shelf in the closet. He went, and 
failed to find it. Then I went, and took it down. 
Jonathan, watching over my shoulder, said, “ But that 
was n’t the top shelf, I suppose you will admit.” 

Sure enough! There was a shelf above. “Oh, yes; 
but I don’t count that shelf. We never use it, because 
nobody can reach it.” 

“How do you expect me to know which shelves you 
count and which you don’t?” 

“Of course, anatomically — structurally — it is one, 
but functionally it is n’t there at all.” 

415 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“I see,” said Jonathan, so contentedly that I knew 
he was filing this affair away for future use. 

On another occasion I asked him to get something 
for me from the top drawer of the old “highboy” in 
the dining room. He was gone a long while, and at 
last, growing impatient, I followed. I found him stand- 
ing on an old wooden-seated chair, screw driver in 
hand. A drawer on a level with his head was open, and 
he had hanging over his arm a gaudy collection of 
ancient table covers and embroidered scarfs, mostly in 
shades of magenta. 

“ She stuck, but I ’ve got her open now. I don’t see 
any pillow-cases, though. It ’s all full of these things.” 
He pumped his laden arm up and down, and the table- 
covers wagged gayly. 

I sank into the chair and laughed. “Oh! Have you 
been prying at that all this time? Of course there ’s 
nothing in that drawer.” 

“There ’s where you ’re wrong. There ’s a lot in 
it; I have n’t taken out half. If you want to see — ” 

“I don't want to see! There ’s nothing I want less! 
What I mean is — I never put anything there.” 

“ It ’s the top drawer.” He was beginning to lay back 
the table covers. 

“But I can’t reach it. And it ’s been stuck for ever 
so long.” 

“You said the top drawer.” 

“Yes, I suppose I did. Of course what I meant was 
the top one of the ones I use.” 

“I see, my dear. When you say top shelf you don’t 
mean top shelf, and when you say top drawer you don’t 
416 


THE SEARCHINGS OF JONATHAN 

mean top drawer; in fact, when you say top you don’t 
mean top at all — you mean the height of your head. 
Everything above that does n’t count.” 

Jonathan was so pleased with this formulation of my 
attitude that he was not in the least irritated to have put 
out unnecessary work. And his satisfaction was deep- 
ened by one more incident. I had sent him to the 
bottom drawer of my bureau to get a shawl. He re- 
turned without it, and I was puzzled. 

“Now, Jonathan, it ’s there, and it ’s the top thing.” 

“The real top,” murmured Jonathan, “or just what 
you call top?” 

“It ’s right in front,” I went on; “and I don’t see 
how even a man could fail to find it.” 

He proceeded to enumerate the contents of the drawer 
in such strange fashion that I began to wonder where he 
had been. 

“I said my bureau.” 

“ I went to your bureau.” 

“The bottom drawer.” 

“The bottom drawer. There was nothing but a 
lot of little boxes and — ” 

“Oh, I know what you did! You went to the secret 
drawer.” 

“Is n’t that the bottom one?” 

“Why, yes, in a way — of course it is; but it does n’t 
exactly count — it ’s not one of the regular drawers — 
it has n ’t any knobs, or anything — ” 

“But it ’s a perfectly good drawer.” 

“Yes. But nobody is supposed to know it ’s there; 
it looks like a molding — ” 


417 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“But I know it ’s there.” 

“Yes, of course.” 

“And you know I know it ’s there.” 

“Yes, yes; but I just don’t think about that one in 
counting up. I see what you mean, of course.” 

“And I see what you mean. You mean that your 
shawl is in the bottom one of the regular drawers — 
with knobs — that can be alluded to in general con- 
versation. Now I think I can find it.” 

He did. And in addition he amused himself by 
working out phrases about “when is a bottom drawer 
not a bottom drawer?” and “when is a top shelf not a 
top shelf?” 

It is to these incidents — which I regard as isolated 
and negligible, and he regards as typical and significant 
— that he alludes on the occasions when he is unable 
to find a red book on the sitting-room table. In vain 
do I point out that when language is variable and fluid 
it is alive, and that there may be two opinions about 
the structural top and the functional top, whereas 
there can be but one as to the book being or not being 
on the table. He maintains a quiet cheerfulness, as of 
one who is conscious of being, if not invulnerable, at 
least well armed. 

For a time he even tried to make believe that he was 
invulnerable as well — to set up the thesis that if the 
book was really on the table he could find it. But in 
this he suffered so many reverses that only strong 
natural pertinacity kept him from capitulation. 

Is it necessary to recount instances? Every family 
can furnish them. As I allow myself to float off into a 
418 


THE SEARCHINGS OF JONATHAN 

reminiscent dream I find my mind possessed by a con- 
tinuous series of dissolving views in which Jonathan is 
always coming to me saying, “It is n’t there,” and I am 
always saying, “Please look again.” 

Though everything in the house seems to be in a 
conspiracy against him, it is perhaps with the fishing- 
tackle that he has most constant difficulties. 

“My dear, have you any idea where my rod is? No, 
don’t get up — I ’ll look if you ’ll just tell me where — ,r 

“Probably in the corner behind the chest in the 
orchard room.” 

“I ’ve looked there.” 

“Well, then, did you take it in from the wagon last 
night?” 

“Yes, I remember doing it.” 

“What about the little attic? You might have put 
it up there to dry out.” 

“No. I took my wading boots up, but that was 
all.” 

“The dining room? You came in that way.” 

He goes and returns. “Not there.” I reflect deeply. 

“Jonathan, are you sure it ’s not in that corner of the 
orchard room?” 

“Yes, I ’m sure; but I ’ll look again.” He dis* 
appears, but in a moment I hear his voice calling, 
“No! Yours is here, but not mine.” 

I perceive that it is a case for me, and I get up. 
“You go and harness. I ’ll find it,” I call. 

There was a time when, under such conditions, I 
should have begun by hunting in all the unlikely places 
I could think of. Now I know better. I go straight to 
419 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


the corner of the orchard room. Then I call to Jonathan, 
just to relieve his mind. 

‘‘All right! I Ve found it.” 

“Where?” 

“Here in the orchard room.” 

“Where in the orchard room?” 

“In the corner.” 

“What corner?” 

“The usual corner — back of the chest.” 

“The devil!” Then« he comes back to put his head 
in at the door. “What are you laughing at?” 

“Nothing. What are you talking about the devil 
for? Anyway, it is n’t the devil; it ’s the brownie.” 

For there seems no doubt that the things he hunts for 
are possessed of supernatural powers; and the theory 
of a brownie in the house, with a special grudge against 
Jonathan, would perhaps best account for the way in 
which they elude his search but leap into sight at my 
approach. There is, to be sure, one other explanation, 
but it is one that does not suggest itself to him, or appeal 
to him when suggested by me, so there is no need to 
dwell upon it. 

If it is n’t the rod, it is the landing net, which has 
hung itself on a nail a little to the left or right of the 
one he had expected to see it on; or his reel, which has 
crept into a corner of the tackle drawer and held a ball 
of string in front of itself to distract his vision; or a 
bunch of snell hooks, which, aware of its protective 
coloring, has snuggled up against the shady side of the 
drawer and tucked its pink-papered head underneath 
a gay pickerel spoon. 


420 


THE SEARCHINGS OF JONATHAN 

Fishing tackle is, clearly, “possessed,” but in other 
fields Jonathan is not free from trouble. Finding any- 
thing on a bureau seems to offer peculiar obstacles. It 
is perhaps a big, black-headed pin that I want. “On 
the pincushion, Jonathan.” 

He goes, and returns with two sizes of safety pins and 
one long hatpin. 

“No, dear, those won’t do. A small, black-headed 
one — at least small compared with a hatpin, large 
compared with an ordinary pin.” 

44 Common or house pin?” he murmurs, quoting a 
friend’s phrase. 

44 Do look again ! I hate to drop this to go myself.” 

“When a man does a job, he gets his tools together 
first.” 

4 4 Yes; but they say women shouldn’t copy men, 
they should develop along their own lines. Please go.” 

He goes, and comes back. “You don’t want fancy 
gold pins, I suppose?” 

44 No, no! Here, you hold this, and I ’ll go.” I dash 
to the bureau. Sure enough, he is right about the 
cushion. I glance hastily about. There, in a little 
saucer, are a half dozen of the sort I want. I snatch 
some and run back. 

“Well, it was n’t in the cushion, I bet.” 

“No,” I admit; 44 it was in a saucer just behind the 
cushion.” 

“You said cushion.” 

“I know. It ’s all right.” 

“Now, if you had said simply ‘bureau,’ I ’d have 
looked in other places on it.” 

421 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“Yes, you ’d have looked in other places!” I could 
not forbear responding. There is, I grant, another side 
to this question. One evening when I went upstairs I 
found a partial presentation of it, in the form of a little 
newspaper clipping, pinned on my cushion. It read as 
follows: — 

“My dear,” said she, “ please run and 
bring me the needle from the haystack.” 

“Oh, I don’t know which haystack.” 

“ Look in all the haystacks — you 
can’t miss it; there ’s only one needle.” 

Jonathan was in the cellar at the moment. When he 
came up, he said, “Did I hear any one laughing?” 

“ I don’t know. Did you ? ’ ’ 

“I thought maybe it was you.” 

“It might have been. Something amused me — I 
forget what.” 

I accused Jonathan of having written it himself but 
he denied it. Some other Jonathan, then; for, as I 
said, this is not a personal matter, it is a world matter. 
Let us grant, then, a certain allowance for those who 
hunt in woman-made haystacks. But what about 
pockets? Is not a man lord over his own pockets? And 
are they not nevertheless as so many haystacks piled 
high for his confusion? Certain it is that Jonathan has 
nearly as much trouble with his pockets as he does 
with the corners and cupboards and shelves and drawers 
of his house. It usually happens over our late supper, 
after his day in town. He sets down his teacup, struck 
with a sudden memory. He feels in his vest pockets — 
first the right, then the left. He proceeds to search 
422 


THE SEARCHINGS OF JONATHAN 

himself, murmuring, “I thought something came to- 
day that I wanted to show you — oh, here! no, that 
is n’t it. I thought I put it — no, those are to be — 
what’s this? No, that ’s a memorandum. Now, where 
in — ” He runs through the papers in his pockets twice 
over, and in the second round I watch him narrowly, 
and perhaps see a corner of an envelope that does not 
look like office work. “There, Jonathan! What ’s 
that? No, not that — that!” 

He pulls it out with an air of immense relief. “There! 
I knew I had something. That ’s it.” 

When we travel, the same thing happens with the 
tickets, especially if they chance to be costly and com- 
plicated ones, with all the shifts and changes of our 
journey printed thick upon their faces. The conductor 
appears at the other end of the car. Jonathan begins 
vaguely to fumble without lowering his paper. Pocket 
after pocket is browsed through in this way. Then the 
paper slides to his knee and he begins a more thorough 
investigation, with all the characteristic clapping and 
diving motions that seem to be necessary. Some 
pockets must always be clapped and others dived into 
to discover their contents. 

No tickets. The conductor is halfway up the car. 
Jonathan’s face begins to grow serious. He rises and 
looks on the seat and under it. He sits down and takes 
out packet after packet of papers and goes over them 
with scrupulous care. At this point I used to become 
really anxious — to make hasty calculations as to our 
financial resources, immediate and ultimate — to won- 
der if conductors ever really put nice people like us off 
423 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


trains. But that was long ago. I know now that 
Jonathan has never lost a ticket in his life. So I glance 
through the paper that he has dropped or watch the 
landscape until he reaches a certain stage of calm and 
definite pessimism, when he says, “ I must have pulled 
them out when I took out those postcards in the other 
car. Yes, that ’s just what has happened.” Then, the 
conductor being only a few seats away, I beg Jonathan 
to look once more in his vest pocket, where he always 
puts them. To oblige me he looks, though without 
faith, and lo! this time the tickets fairly fling them- 
selves upon him, with smiles almost curling up their 
corners. Does the brownie travel with us, then? 

I begin to suspect that some of the good men who 
have been blamed for forgetting to mail letters in their 
pockets have been, not indeed blameless, but at least 
misunderstood. Probably they do not forget. Prob- 
ably they hunt for the letters and cannot find them, 
and conclude that they have already mailed them. 

In the matter of the home haystacks Jonathan’s 
confidence in himself has at last been shaken. For a 
long time, when he returned to me after some futile 
search, he used to say, “Of course you can look for it if 
you like, but it is not there.” But man is a reasoning, if 
not altogether a reasonable, being, and with a sufficient 
accumulation of evidence, especially when there is some 
one constantly at hand to interpret its teachings, almost 
any set of opinions, however fixed, may be shaken. So 
here. 

Once when we shut up the farm for the winter I left 
my fountain pen behind. This was little short of a 
424 


THE SEARCHINGS OF JONATHAN 


tragedy, but I comforted myself with the knowledge 
that Jonathan was going back that week-end for a day’s 
hunt. 

“Be sure to get the pen first of all,” I said, “and put 
it in your pocket.” 

“Where is it?” he asked. 

“In the little medicine cupboard over the fireplace 
in the orchard room, standing up at the side of the first 
shelf.” 

“Why not on your desk?” he asked. 

“Because I was writing tags in there, and set it up so 
it would be out of the way.” 

“ And it was out of the way. All right. I ’ll collect it.” 

He went, and on his return I met him with eager 
hand — “My pen!” 

“I ’m sorry,” he began. 

“You did n’t forget!” I exclaimed. 

“No. But it was n’t there.” 

“But — did you look? ” 

“Yes, I looked.” 

“Thoroughly?” 

“Yes. I lit three matches.” 

“Matches! Then you didn’t get it when you first 
got there!” 

“ Why — no — I had the dog to attend to — and — 
but I had plenty of time when I got back, and it was n't 
there.” 

“Well — Dear me! Did you look anywhere else? 
I suppose I may be mistaken. Perhaps I did take it 
back to the desk.” 

“That ’s just what I thought myself,” said Jonathan. 

425 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“So I went there, and looked, and then I looked on all 
the mantelpieces and your bureau. You must have put 
it in your bag the last minute — bet it ’s there now!” 

“Bet it is n’t.” 

It was n’t. For two weeks more I was driven to 
using other pens — strange and distracting to the 
fingers and the eyes and the mind. Then Jonathan 
was to go up again. 

“Please look once more,” I begged, “and don’t 
expect not to see it. I can fairly see it myself, this 
minute, standing up there on the right-hand side, just 
behind the machine-oil can.” 

“Oh, I ’ll look,” he promised. “If it ’s there, I ’ll 
find it.” 

He returned penless. I considered buying another. 
But we were planning to go up together the last week 
of the hunting season, and I thought I would wait on 
the chance. 

We got off at the little station and hunted our way 
up, making great sweeps and jogs, as hunters must, to 
take in certain spots we thought promising — certain 
ravines and swamp edges where we are always sure of 
hearing the thunderous whir of partridge wings, or the 
soft, shrill whistle of woodcock. At noon we broiled 
chops and rested in the lee of the wood edge, where, 
even in the late fall, one can usually find spots that are 
warm and still. It was dusk by the time we came over 
the crest of the farm ledges and saw the huddle of the 
home buildings below us, and quite dark when we 
reached the house. Fires had been made and coals 
smouldered on the hearth in the sitting room. 

m 


THE SEARCHINGS OF JONATHAN 

“You light the lamp,” I said, “and I ’ll just take a 
match and go through to see if that pen should happen 
to be there.” 

“No use doing anything to-night,” said Jonathan. 
“To-morrow morning you can have a thorough hunt.” 

But I took my match, felt my way into the next 
room, past the fireplace, up to the cupboard, then 
struck my match. In its first flare-up I glanced in. 
Then I chuckled. 

Jonathan had gone out to the dining room, but he 
has perfectly good ears. 

“NO ! ” he roared, and his tone of dismay, incredulity, 
rage, sent me off into gales of unscrupulous laughter. 
He was striding in, candle in hand, shouting, “It was 
not there!” 

“Look yourself,” I managed to gasp. 

This time, somehow, he could see it. 

“ You planted it ! You brought it up and planted it ! ” 

“I never! Oh, dear me! It pays for going without 
it for weeks!” 

“ Nothing will ever make me believe that that pen 
was standing there when I looked for it!” said Jona- 
than, with vehement finality. 

“All right,” I sighed happily. “You don’t have to 
believe it.” 

But in his heart perhaps he does believe it. At any 
rate, since that time he has adopted a new formula: 
“My dear, it may be there, of course, but I don’t see 
it.” And this position I regard as unassailable. 

One triumph he has had. I wanted something that 
was stored away in the shut-up town house. 

427 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“Do you suppose you could find it? ” I said, as gently 
as possible. 

“I can try,” be said. 

“I think it is in a box about this shape — see? — a 
gray box, in the attic closet, the farthest-in corner.” 

“Are you sure it ’s in the house? If it ’s in the house, 
I think I can find it.” 

“Yes, I ’m sure of that.” 

When he returned that night, his face wore a look 
of satisfaction very imperfectly concealed beneath a 
mask of nonchalance. 

“Good for you! Was it where I said?” 

“No.” 

“Was it in a different corner?” 

“No.” 

“Where was it?” 

“It wasn’t in a corner at all. It wasn’t in that 
closet.” 

“ It was n’t ! Where, then? ” 

“Downstairs in the hall closet.” He paused, then 
could not forbear adding, “And it was n’t in a gray 
box; it was in a big hatbox with violets all over it.” 

“Why, Jonathan! Are n’t you grand! How did you 
ever find it? I could n’t have done better myself.” 

Under such praise he expanded. “The fact is,” he 
said confidentially, “I had given it up. And then sud- 
denly I changed my mind. I said to myself , 4 Jonathan, 
don’t be a man! Think what she ’d do if she were here 
now.’ And then I got busy and found it.” 

“Jonathan!” I could almost have wept if I had not 
been laughing. 


428 


THE SEARCHINGS OF JONATHAN 

“ Well/’ he said, proud, yet rather sheepish, “what is 
there so funny about that? I gave up half a day to it.” 

“ Funny ! It isn ’t funny — exactly. You don’t mind 
my laughing a little? Why, you ’ve lived down the 
fountain pen — we ’ll forget the pen — ” 

“Oh, no, you won’t forget the pen either,” he said, 
with a certain pleasant grimness. 

“Well, perhaps not — of course it would be a pity to 
forget that. Suppose I say, then, that we ’ll always 
regard the pen in the light of the violet hatbox?” 

“I think that might do.” Then he had an alarming 
afterthought. “ But, see here — you won’t expect me 
to do things like that often?” 

“Dear me, no! People can’t live always on their 
highest levels. Perhaps you ’ll never do it again.” 
Jonathan looked distinctly relieved. “I ’ll accept it as 
a unique effort — like Dante’s angel and Raphael’s 
sonnet.” 

“Jonathan,” I said that evening, “what do you 
know about St. Anthony of Padua?” 

“Not much.” 

“Well, you ought to. He helped you to-day. He ’s 
the saint who helps people to find lost articles. Every 
man ought to take him as a patron saint.” 

“And do you know which saint it is who helps people 
to find lost virtues — like humility, for instance?” 

“No. I don’t, really.” 

“I did n’t suppose you did,” said Jonathan. 


THE ATTACK ON THE MIN- 
ISTER’S MELON PATCH 

By Harriet Beecher Stowe 

F OR two or three days El Vinton and Tom and 
Jimmy had seemed to have some plan on foot from 
which I was excluded. There was a great deal of 
chaffing and laughing among them, and passing of 
catchwords from one to another; and it was evident 
that something was going on which was not to be 
communicated to me. 

One evening, just at twilight, El proposed that we 
should all go in swimming together in a neighboring 
pond. The evening was delightful — it had been a 
hot August day — the full moon was just rising, and 
would light our way home. El Vinton put his arm in 
mine, and made himself unusually gracious and agree- 
able. In fact, he usually did that, and if he had not 
possessed that easy, jolly kind of way, I think I should 
not have borne as I did the sort of dictation he exer- 
cised over us all. 

He rattled, and chattered, and talked all the way to 
the pond, and we had a glorious swim. By the time we 
started to return home, it was broad, clear moonlight, 
clear enough to see to read by. 

We came along cross-lots, swishing through the high, 
dewy meadow grass, and I gathered, as I went, hand- 
430 


ATTACK ON MINISTER’S MELON PATCH 

fuls of bright, spicy wild roses and golden lilies, as a 
bouquet for Lucy. Suddenly we came to the minister’s 
watermelon patch, and I was going to propose that we 
should make a circuit round it, to avoid tramping the 
vines, when El Vinton, putting one hand on the top 
rail, swung himself over, saying — 

“Now for it, boys! Here ’s a dessert for us!” 

The boys followed him, and forthwith began, in the 
bright moonlight, sounding the melons. 

“Take care, fellows!” said El. “I ’m the judge of 
ripeness. Don’t cut till I give verdict.” 

“Boys,” said I, “what are you doing?” 

“Oh, you ’ll see if you live long enough,” said El, 
coolly cutting off one or two fine melons, and taking 
them to a retired spot under a large tree. “This way, 
Tom, with that one. Jimmy, don’t you cut any; let 
me cut them.” 

“But,” said I, “boys, this is too bad. This is Mr. 
Sewell’s patch — the minister. 

“All the better,” said El. “Just as if we did n’t know 
that. I would n’t have taken Deacon Sharpe’s, for I 
know they would give us a stomach ache; but Mr. 
Sewell’s are your real Christian melons — won’t hurt 
anybody.” 

The boys all laughed as they sat down under the 
tree, and El began cutting up a great, ripe, red melon. 

I stood irresolute. 

“Perhaps you had better run and tell of us,” said El. 

“I think it’s a shame for you to say that, El Vinton,” 
said I. “You know it ’s unjust.” 

“Well, so ’t is,” he said, with a frank, dashing air. 

431 


THE BOOK OP HUMOR 


“ I know, Bill, that you are as good-hearted a fellow as 
breathes, and any one that says you are a sneak or a 
spy, I ’ll fight him. So sit down with us.” 

“But seriously,” said I, sitting down, “I must ex- 
postulate.” 

“Well, wet your whistle first,” said El, cutting a 
great fresh piece, and holding it up to my mouth. 

Now, if you imagine a thirsty boy, on a hot August 
night, with a cool, trickling slice of watermelon held 
right to his lips, you will, perhaps, see how it was that 
I ate my slice of watermelon before I was well aware 
what I did. 

“Goes down pretty well, don’t it?” said El, stroking 
my back. “You see there ’s nothing like your real 
orthodox, pious melons. Why, I don’t doubt that 
there ’s grace grown into these melons that will set us 
a long way on in saintship.” 

There was a general laugh at this sally, and I laughed, 
too, but still said, in an uneasy voice — 

“After all, El, it isn ’t handsome to take the min- 
ster’s melons in this way.” 

“Bless you! ” said El, “it is n’t the melons we care for, 
it ’s the fun. Let ’s see. These melons are worth, say 
half a dollar apiece; that ’s a liberal estimate. Well, 
suppose we eat six of them; that’s three dollars! 
What ’s three dollars?” he said, with a magnificent slap 
of his pocket. “Now I, for one, am ready to plank down 
five dollars this minute, as my part of a subscription to 
get Sewell a concordance, or a cyclopaedia, or set of 
Shakespeare, or any such thing as folks give to minis- 
ters; but I want my fun out of him, you see. I want 
432 


ATTACK ON MINISTER’S MELON PATCH 

my melons in this pastoral way, just when I feel like 
eating ’em, — and enough of them — and so here goes 
a roarer,” giving a smart slash of his knife across the 
third melon. 

And so, on and on we went, never knowing that 
Abner Stearns, the parson’s hired man, had his eye at a 
hole in the shrubbery, and was taking an exact account 
of us. Long before we left the fields, Abner had made 
his way across the lots, and detailed to Mr. Sewell the 
whole that he had seen and heard. 

“There ’s one on ’em — that ’ere Bill Somers — he 
seemed rather to go agin it, but they would n’t hear to 
it, and kind o’ roped him in among ’em,” said Abner. 
“And now, Mr. Sewell, if you say so, I can jest go up 
with you to Mr. Exeter, with this ere story, ’cause I got 
a good look at every one on ’em, and knows exactly who 
they be, and I can testify on ’em slick as a whistle. 
That ’air Vinton boy, from Boston, he ’s the head o’ 
the hull. I hain ’t never had no great opinion o’ him. 
He ’s up to every kind o’ shine, and jest the one to rope 
in other boys.” 

“Well, Abner,” said Mr. Sewell, “I have my own 
plan about this affair, and you must promise me not to 
say a single word about it to any human being, not even 
to your wife.” 

“That ’s pretty well put in, too,” said Abner, “for if 
I told Cinthy, she ’d want to tell Dolly Ann, and Dolly 
Ann, she ’d want to tell Dolly, and ’twould be all over 
the town afore night.” 

“Precisely so,” said the minister, “but my plan re- 
quires absolute silence. I can’t manage without.” 

433 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

“Go ahead, Parson Sewell,” said Abner. “I ’ll be 
dumb as a catfish,” and Abner went home, wondering 
what the minister’s plan was. 

“Lucy,” said Mr. Sewell, coming out of his study, 
“I think we had four nice, ripe melons put down cellar 
this morning, did n’t we?” 

“Yes, papa.” 

“Well, I ’m going to invite the boys over at the op- 
posite house to a little melon supper. I ’ll bring up the 
melons, and you set out a table, and I ’ll go over and 
invite them.” 

Now as Lucy had particularly friendly feelings 
toward, at least, one boy in the lot, she set about her 
hospitality with alacrity. 

We were coming up the street in the full, broad 
moonlight. 

“I tell you,” said El, “I ’m about as full as I can wag. 
It ’s wonderful how watermelons can fill a fellow up. I 
feel as I used to after a Thanksgiving dinner.” 

“So do I,” said Tom. “I could n’t really get down 
another morsel.” 

At this moment, as we turned the corner to our 
boardinghouse, Mr. Sewell stood out plain before us, in 
the moonlight. 

“Good evening, young gentlemen,” he said, in a 
bland, polite tone. “I ’ve been looking for you.” 

Our hearts all thumped, I fancy, a little quicker than 
before, but Mr. Sewell was so calm and polite, it could 
not be that he suspected where we had been. 

“I ’ve been looking for you,” said Mr. Sewell, “just 
to ask you to step in a few moments and eat water- 
434 


ATTACK ON MINISTER’S MELON PATCH 

melons with us. We have a splendid lot of nice, ripe 
watermelons, and I thought you could help us to put 
some of them away.” 

I saw El give Danforth a look of despair; but of 
course there was nothing to be done but seem highly 
delighted and honored, and we followed Mr. Sewell 
into the house and to a table piled with ripe melons, for 
which, wearied and cloyed as we were, we had to feign a 
boy’s fresh appetite. 

Mr. Sewell was pressing. He cut and carved without 
mercy — would not hear an apology, piled up our 
plates with new slices before we had half demolished the 
old ones, while we munched away with the courage of 
despair. 

Lucy was there, doing her part of the hospitality in 
the prettiest and most graceful manner possible. 

I had reasons of my own why the feast seemed almost 
to choke me. I had eaten very little of the melons in the 
lot, but the sense of the meanness of my conduct op- 
pressed me. I could not bear to meet Lucy’s eyes — 
and Mr. Sewell’s politeness was dreadful to me. I 
rather fancy that there never was a set of boys who 
groaned more in spirit over a delicious banquet than we 
over those melons. It was in vain we made excuses; 
feigned modesty, delicacy; said, “No, I thank you,” 
and so on. The hospitality was so pressing, and our 
guilty consciences made us so afraid of being suspected, 
that we nearly killed ourselves in the effort. But at 
last we had to stop short of what was provided for us. 

There was a sort of subdued twinkle in Mr. Sewell’s 
eye, as he bade us good-night, that struck me singularly. 

435 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


It was like a sudden flash of lightning on a dark night. 
I felt perfectly sure that somehow he knew all about us. 
I felt my cheeks flame up to my hair, and my misery 
was at its climax. 

When we stumbled home the boys were alternately 
laughing and groaning, and declaring that the parson 
had caught them; but I stumbled into bed, blind and 
despairing. Oh, the misery of utter shame and self- 
contempt! I really wished I had never been born; I 
wished I had never come to Highland Academy; never 
known Lucy or Mr. Sewell; wished that El Vinton had 
kept a thousand miles away; and, finally, it occurred 
to me to wish the right wish which lay at the bottom of 
all — that I had had sense and manliness enough, weeks 
ago, to begin with my roommates as I knew I ought to 
go on, and not get into the miserable tangle which had 
ended in this disgrace. 

I did not sleep a wink that night, and next morning, 
at five o’clock, I was up, and seeing Mr. Sewell out in 
his garden, I resolved to go to him and make a clean 
breast of it. 

I went and told him I wanted to see him alone, and 
went with him into his study and told him what a 
miserable, silly fool I had been for the few weeks past. 

“I tell you, Mr. Sewell, because I won’t play the 
hypocrite any longer,” I said. “Lucy thinks a great 
deal too well of me; and you have been a great deal too 
kind to me; and I thought I might as well let you see 
just how mistaken you have been in me, and what a 
mean, miserable humbug I am.” 

“Oh, no, not quite a humbug,” said Mr. Sewell, 
436 


ATTACK ON MINISTER’S MELON PATCH 

smiling. “ Courage, my boy. You ’ve made a clean 
breast of it, and now you ’ve got down to firm ground, 
I think. It’s just as well to get through this kind of 
experience while you are a boy, if you are one of those 
that can learn anything by experience.” 

“But now I don’t know what to do,” said I. “I am 
wrong all round; and seem to have lost the power of 
doing right.” 

“Well, you have made it pretty hard to do right,” he 
said; “but if you ’ve pluck enough now, to face about, 
and to tell your roommates just what you have told 
me — that you have been going wrong, but that you 
are determined now to do right, and having told them 
so, if you will keep to it with steadiness for a week or 
two, you may get back the ground that you never ought 
to have lost in the first place. It ’s tremendously hard 
to face about when you have been yielding, but it can 
be done.” 

“It shall be done,” said I; and I took my hat up and 
walked over to our room, and got the boys together and 
made my speech to them. I blamed nobody but my- 
self. I told them I had acted like a sneak; and that I 
did n’t wonder they had no respect for me, but I told 
them I meant to be done acting like a sneak, and be a 
man; that I should, for the future, keep from drinking 
and smoking, and breaking school rules, and that if 
they would join me, well and good, but if they did n’t, 
it should make no difference. 

Mr. Sewell that same day sent for El Vinton and 
Jimmy, and had a talk with them, and matters in our 
room began to wear quite another appearance. 

437 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“I tell you, fellows,” said El Vinton, “it was rather 
bully of the parson not to blow on us. Exeter would 
have turned us out of school in less than no time. And 
Sewell gave me some precious good counsel,” he added; 
“and on the whole, I don’t know but I ’ll make an 
experiment of the ways of virtue.” 


THE MINISTER’S 
HOUSEKEEPER 

By Harriet Beecher Stowe 

Scene. — The shady side of a blueberry pasture. — Sam Lawson 
with the boys, picking blueberries. — Sam, loq. 

W AL, you see, boys ’t was just here — Parson 
Carry l’s wife she died along in the forepart o’ 
March : my cousin Huldy she undertook to keep house 
for him. The way on ’t was, that Huldy she went to 
take care o' Mis’ Carryl in the fust on ’t, when she fust 
took sick. Huldy was a tailoress by trade; but then she 
was one o’ these ’ere facultized persons that has a gift 
for most anything, and that was how Mis’ Carryl come 
to set sech store by her, that, when she was sick, nothin’ 
would do for her but she must have Huldy round all the 
time; and the minister he said he ’d make it good to 
her all the same, and she should n’t lose nothin’ by it. 
And so Huldy she stayed with Mis’ Carryl full three 
months afore she died, and got to seein’ to everything 
pretty much round the place. 

“Wal, arter Mis’ Carryl died, Parson Carryl he ’d 
got so kind o’ used to hevin’ on her round, takin’ care o’ 
things, that he wanted her to stay along a spell; and so 
Huldy she stayed along a spell, and poured out his tea, 
and mended his close, and made pies and cakes, and 
cooked and washed and ironed, and kep’ everything as 
439 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


neat as a pin. Huldy was a drefful chipper sort o’ gal; 
and work sort o' rolled off from her like water off a 
duck’s back. There wa’n’t no gal in Sherburne that 
could put sich a sight o’ work through as Huldy; and 
yet, Sunday mornin’, she always come out in the singers’ 
seat like one o’ these ’ere June roses, lookin’ so fresh 
and smilin’, and her voice was jest as clear and sweet as 
a meadow lark’s. I ’member how she used to sing some 
o’ them ’ere places where the treble and counter used 
to go together : her voice kind o’ trembled a little, and 
it sort o’ went through and through a feller! tuck him 
right where he lived!” 

Here Sam leaned contemplatively back with his head 
in a clump of sweet fern, and refreshed himself with a 
chew of young wintergreen. “This ’ere young winter- 
green, boys, is jest like a feller’s thoughts o’ things that 
happened when he was young: it comes up jest so 
fresh and tender every year, the longest time you hev 
to live; and you can’t help chawin’ on ’t though ’t is 
sort o’ stingin’. I don’t never get over likin’ young 
wintergreen.” 

“But about Huldah, Sam?” 

“Oh, yes! about Huldy. When a feller is Indianin’ 
round, these ’ere pleasant summer days, a feller’s 
thoughts gits like a flock o’ young partridges: they ’s 
up and down and everywhere; ’cause one place is jest 
about as good as another, when they ’s all so kind o’ 
comfortable and nice. Wal, about Huldy, — as I was 
a-sayin’. She was jest as handsome a gal to look at as 
a feller could have; and I think a nice, well-behaved 
young gal in the singers’ seat of a Sunday is a means o’ 
440 


THE MINISTER’S HOUSEKEEPER 

grace: it’s sort o’ drawin’ to the unregenerate, you 
know. Why, boys, in them days, I ’ve walked ten miles 
over to Sherburne of a Sunday mornin’, jest to play the 
bass viol in the same singers’ seat with Huldy. She 
was very much respected, Huldy was; and, when she 
went out to tailorin’, she was allers bespoke six months 
ahead, and sent for in waggins up and down for ten 
miles round; for the young fellers was allers ’mazin’ 
anxious to be sent after Huldy, and was quite free to 
offer to go for her. Wal, after Mis’ Carryl died, Huldy 
got to be sort o’ housekeeper at the minister’s, and saw 
to everything, and did everything: so that there wa’n’t 
a pin out o’ the way. 

“But you know how ’t is in parishes: there allers is 
women that thinks the minister’s affairs belongs to 
them, and they ought to have the rulin’ and guidin’ of 
’em; and, if a minister’s wife dies, there ’s folks that 
allers has their eyes open on providences, — lookin’ 
out who ’s to be the next one. 

“Ye see, the Parson’s wife, she was one of them 
women who hed their eyes everywhere and on every- 
thing. She was a little thin woman, but tough as Inger 
rubber, and smart as a steel trap; and there wa’n’t 
a hen laid an egg, or cackled, but Mis’ Carryl was right 
there to see about it; and she hed the garden made in 
the spring, and the medders mowed in summer, and the 
cider made, and the corn husked, and the apples got in 
the fall; and the doctor, he hed n’t nothin’ to do but 
jest sit stock-still a-meditatin’ on Jerusalem and Jericho 
and them things that ministers think about. But he 
did n’t know nothin’ about where anything he eat or 
441 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


drank or wore come from or went to: his wife jest led 
him round in temporal things and took care on him like 
a baby. 

i “Wal, to be sure, Mis’ Carryl looked up to him in 
spirituals, and thought all the world on him; for there 
wa’n’t a smarter minister nowhere round. Why, when 
he preached on decrees and election, they used to come 
clear over from South Parish, and West Sherburne, and 
Oldtown to hear him; and there was sich a row o’ 
waggins tied along by the meetin’house that the stables 
was all full, and all the hitchin’ posts was full clean up 
to the tavern, so that folks said the doctor made the 
town look like a gineral trainin’ day a Sunday. 

“He was gret on texts, the doctor was. When he hed 
a p’int to prove, he ’d jest go through the Bible, and 
drive all the texts ahead o’ him like a flock o’ sheep; 
and then, if there was a text that seemed agin him, why, 
he ’d come out with his Greek and Hebrew, and kind 
o’chase it round a spell, jest as ye see a feller chase a 
contrary bellwether, and make him jump the fence 
arter the rest. I tell you, there wa’n’t no text in the 
Bible that could stand agin the doctor when his blood 
was up. The year arter the doctor was app’inted to 
preach the ’lection sermon in Boston, he made such a 
figger that the Brattle Street Church sent a committee 
right down to see if they could n’t get him to Boston; 
and then the Sherburne folks, they up and raised his 
salary, ye see, there ain’t nothin’ wakes folks up like 
somebody else’s wantin’ what you ’ve got. Wal, that 
fall they made him a Doctor o’ Divinity at Cambridge 
College, and so they sot more by him than ever. Wal, 
442 


THE MINISTER’S HOUSEKEEPER 

you see, the doctor, of course he felt kind o’ lonesome 
and afflicted when Mis’ Carry 1 was gone; but railly and 
truly, Huldy was so up to everything about house, that 
the doctor did n’t miss nothin’ in a temporal way. His 
shirt bosoms was pleated finer than they ever was, and 
them ruffles round his wrists was kep’ like the driven 
snow; and there wa’n’t a brack in his silk stockin’s, 
and his shoe buckles was kep’ polished up, and his coats 
brushed, and then there wa’n’t no bread and biscuit 
like Huldy ’s; and her butter was like solid lumps o’ 
gold; and there were n’t no pies to equal hers. She was 
kind o’ pleasant to look at; and the more the doctor 
looked at her the better he liked her; and so things 
seemed to be goin’ on quite quiet and comfortable ef 
it had n’t been that Mis’ Pipperidge and Mis’ Deakin 
Blodgett and Mis’ Sawin got their heads together 
a-talkin’ about things. 

“ ‘Poor man,’ says Mis’ Pipperidge, ‘what can that 
child that he ’s got there do towards takin’ the care of 
all that place? It takes a mature woman,’ she says, ‘to 
tread in Mis’ Carry l’s shoes.’ 

“ ‘That it does,’ said Mis’ Blodgett; ‘and, when 
things once get to runnin’ downhill, there ain’t no 
stoppin’ on ’em,’ says she. 

“Then Mis’ Sawin she took it up. (Ye see, Mis’ 
Sawin used to go out to dressmakin’, and was sort o’ 
jealous, ’cause folks sot more by Huldy than they did 
by her.) ‘Well,’ says she, ‘Huldy Peters is well enough 
at her trade. I never denied that, though I do say I 
never did believe in her way o’ makin’ buttonholes; 
and I must say, if ’t was the dearest friend I hed, that 
443 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

I thought Huldy tryin’ to fit Mis’ Kittridge’s plum- 
colored silk was a clear piece o’ presumption; the silk 
was jist sp’iled, so ’t wa’n’t fit to come into the meetin’- 
house. I must say, Huldy’s a gal that ’s always too 
venturesome about takin’ ’sponsibilities she don’t know 
nothin’ about.’ 

“ ‘Of course she don’t,’ said Mis’ Deakin Blodgett. 
4 What does she know about all the lookin’ and seein’ to 
that there ought to be in guidin’ the minister’s house. 
Huldy’s well meanin’, and she ’s good at her work, and 
good in the singers’ seat; but Lordy massy! she hain’t 
got no experience. Parson Carryl ought to have an 
experienced woman to keep house for him. There ’s 
the spring house cleanin’ and the fall house cleanin’ to 
be seen to, and the things to be put away from the 
moths; and then the gettin’ ready for the Association 
and all the ministers’ meetin’s; and the makin’ the 
soap and the candles, and settin’ the hens and turkeys, 
watchin’ the calves, and seein’ after the hired men and 
the garden; and there that ’ere blessed man jist sets 
there at home as serene, and has nobody round but 
that ’ere gal, and don’t even know how things must be 
a-runnin’ to waste!’ 

“Wal, the upshot on ’t was, they fussed and fuzzled 
and wuzzled till they ’d drinked up all the tea in the 
teapot; and then they went down and called on the 
Parson, and wuzzled him all up talkin’ about this, that, 
and t’other that wanted lookin’ to, and that it was no 
way to leave everything to a young chit like Huldy, and 
that he ought to be lookin’ about for an experienced 
woman. The Parson he thanked ’em kindly, and said 
444 


THE MINISTER’S HOUSEKEEPER 

he believed their motives was good, but he did n’t go 
no further. He did n’t ask Mis’ Pipperidge to come and 
stay there and help him, nor nothin’ o’ that kind; but 
he said he ’d attend to matters himself. The fact was 
the Parson had got such a likin’ for havin’ Huldy 
round, that he could n’t think o’ such a thing as swap- 
pin’ her off for the Widder Pipperidge. 

“But he thought to himself, ‘Huldy is a good girl; 
but I ought n’t to be a-leavin’ everything to her — 
it’s too hard on her. I ought to be instructin’ and 
guidin’ and helpin’ of her; ’cause ’t ain’t everybody 
could be expected to know and do what Mis’ Carryl 
did;’ and so at it he went; and did n’t Huldy hev a 
time on ’t when the minister began to come out of his 
study, and want to tew round and see to things? 
Huldy, you see, thought all the world of the minister, 
and she was ’most afraid to laugh; but she told me she 
could n’t, for the life of her, help it when his back was 
turned, for he wuzzled things up in the most singular 
way. But Huldy she ’d jest say, 4 Yes, sir,’ and get him 
off into his study, and go on her own way. 

“ ‘Huldy,’ says the minister one day, ‘you ain’t 
experienced out doors; and, when you want to know 
anything, you must come to me.’ 

“ ‘Yes, sir,’ says Huldy. 

“ ‘Now, Huldy,’ says the Parson, ‘you must be sure 
to save the turkey eggs, so that we can have a lot of 
turkeys for Thanksgiving.’ 

“ ‘Yes, sir,’ says Huldy; and she opened the pantry 
door, and showed him a nice dishful she ’d been a-savin* 
up. Wal, the very next day the Parson’s hen turkey 
445 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

was found killed up to old Jim Scroggs’s barn. Folks 
said Scroggs killed it; though Scroggs he stood to it he 
did n’t: at any rate, the Scroggses they made a meal 
on ’t; and Huldy she felt bad about it, ’cause she ’d 
set her heart on raisin’ the turkeys; and says she, ‘Oh, 
dear! I don’t know what I shall do. I was just ready 
to set her.’ 

“ ‘Do, Huldy?’ says the Parson. ‘Why, there ’s the 
other turkey, out there by the door; and a fine bird, too, 
he is.’ 

“Sure enough, there was the old tom turkey a-strut- 
tin’ and a-sidlin’ and a-quitterin’, and a-floutin’ his 
tail feathers in the sun, like a lively young widower, all 
ready to begin life over ag’in. 

“ ‘But,’ says Huldy, ‘you know he can’t set on eggs . 9 

“ ‘He can’t? I ’d like to know why,’ says the Parson. 
‘He shall set on eggs, and hatch ’em too.’ 

“‘O doctor’ says Huldy, all in a tremble; ’cause, 
you know, she did n’t want to contradict the minister, 
and she was afraid she should laugh — ‘I never heard 
that a tom turkey would set on eggs.’ 

“ ‘Why, they ought to,’ said the Parson, getting 
quite ’arnest; ‘what else be they good for? you just 
bring out the eggs, now, and put ’em in the nest, and 
I ’ll make him set on ’em.’ 

“So Huldy she thought there were n’t no way to con- 
vince him but to let him try : so she took the eggs out, 
and fixed ’em all nice in the nest; and then she come 
back and found old Tom a-skirmishin’ wdth the Parson 
pretty lively, I tell ye. Ye see, old Tom he did n’t take 
the idee at all; and he flopped and gobbled, and fit the 
446 


THE MINISTER’S HOUSEKEEPER 

Parson; and the Parson’s wig got round so that his cue 
stuck straight out over his ear, but he ’d got his blood 
up. Ye see, the old doctor was used to carryin’ his 
p’ints o’ doctrine; and he had n’t fit the Arminians and 
Socinians to be beat by a tom turkey; so finally he 
made a dive, and ketched him by the neck in spite o’ 
his floppin’, and stroked him down, and put Huldy’s 
apron round him. 

“ ‘There, Huldy,’ he says, quite red in the face, 
‘we ’ve got him now;’ and he traveled off to the barn 
with him as lively as a cricket. 

“Huldy came behind jist chokin’ with laugh, and 
afraid the minister would look round and see her. 

“ ‘Now, Huldy, we ’ll crook his legs, and set him 
down,’ says the Parson, when they got him to the nest; 
‘you see he is getting quiet, and he ’ll set there all 
right.’ 

“And the Parson he sot him down; and old Tom he 
sot there solemn enough, and held his head down all 
droopin’, lookin’ like a rail pious old cock, as long as the 
Parson sot by him. 

“ ‘There! you see how still he sets,’ says the Parson 
to Huldy. 

“Huldy was ’most dyin’ for fear she should laugh. 
‘I ’m afraid he ’ll get up,’ says she, ‘when you do.’ 

“ ‘Oh no, he won’t!’ says the Parson, quite confi- 
dent. ‘There, there,’ says he, layin’ his hands on him, 
as if pronouncin’ a blessin’. But when the Parson riz 
up, old Tom he riz up too, and began to march over the 
eggs. 

“ ‘Stop, now!’ says the Parson. ‘I ’ll make him get 
447 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 
down ag’in: hand me that corn basket; we ’ll put that 
over him.’ 

“So he crooked old Tom’s legs, and got him down 
ag’in; and they put the corn basket over him, and then 
they both stood and waited. 

“ ‘That ’ll do the thing, Huldy,’ said the Parson. 

“ ‘I don’t know about it,’ says Huldy. 

“ ‘Oh yes, it will, child! I understand,’ says he. 

“Just as he spoke, the basket riz right up and stood 
and they could see old Tom’s long legs. 

“ ‘I ’ll make him stay down, says the Parson; for 
he had got his spunk up. 

“ ‘You jist hold him a minute, and I ’ll get something 
that ’ll make him stay, I guess;’ and out he went to the 
fence, and brought in a long, thin, flat stone, and laid it 
on old Tom’s back. 

“Old Tom he wilted dovm considerable under this 
and looked railly as if he was goin’ to give in. He 
stayed still there a good long spell, and the minister 
and Huldy left him there and come up to the house; 
but they had n’t more than got in the door before they 
see old Tom a-hippin’ along, as high-steppin’ as ever, 
sayin’, ‘Talk! talk! and quitter! quitter!’ and strutt in’ 
and gobblin’ as if he ’d come through the Red Sea, and 
got the victory. 

“‘Oh, my eggs!’ says Huldy. ‘I’m afraid he’s 
smashed ’em!’ 

“And sure enough, there they was, smashed flat 
enough under the stone. 

“ ‘I ’ll have him killed,’ said the Parson: ‘we won’t 
have such a critter round.’ 

448 


THE MINISTER’S HOUSEKEEPER 


“But the Parson he slep’ on ’t, and then did n’t do it; 
he only come out next Sunday with a tiptop sermon on 
the ‘’Riginal Cuss’ that was pronounced on things in 
gineral, when Adam fell, and showed how everything 
was allowed to go contrary ever since. There was pig- 
weed, and pulsey, and Canady thistles, cutworms, and 
bagworms, and cankerworms, to say nothin’ of rattle- 
snakes. The doctor made it very impressive and sort o’ 
improvin’; but Huldy she told me, goin’ home, that 
she hardly could keep from laughin’ two or three times 
in the sermon when she thought of old Tom a-standin’ 
up with the corn basket on his back. 

“ Wal, next week Huldy she jist borrowed the minis- 
ter’s horse and side saddle, and rode over to South 
Parish to her Aunt Bascome’s — Widder Bascome’s, 
you know, that lives there by the trout brook — and 
got a lot o’ turkey eggs o’ her, and come back and set a 
hen on ’em, and said nothin’; and in good time there 
was as nice a lot o’ turkey chicks as ever ye see. 

“Huldy never said a word to the minister about his 
experiment, and he never said a word to her; but he 
sort o’ kep’ more to his books, and did n’t take it on 
him to advise so much. 

“But not long arter he took it into his head that 
Huldy ought to have a pig to be a-fattin’ with the but- 
termilk. Mis’ Pipperidge set him up to it; and jist 
then old Tim Bigelow, out to Juniper Hill, told him if 
he ’d call over he ’d give him a little pig. 

“So he sent for a man, and told him to build a pig- 
pen right out by the well, and have it all ready when he 
came home with his pig. 


449 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“Huldy she said she wished he might put a curb 
round the well out there, because in the dark, some- 
times, a body might stumble into it; and the Parson 
he told him he might do that. 

“ Wal, old Aikin, the carpenter, he did n’t come till 
most the middle of the arternoon; and then he sort o’ 
idled, so that he did n’t get up the well curb till sun- 
down; and then he went off and said he ’d come and 
do the pigpen next day. 

“Wal, arter dark, Parson Carry 1 he driv into the 
yard, full chizel, with his pig. He ’d tied up his mouth 
to keep him from squealin’; and he see what he thought 
was the pigpen — he was rather near-sighted — and 
so he ran and threw piggy over; and down he dropped 
into the water, and the minister put out his horse and 
pranced off in to the house quite delighted. 

“ ‘There, Huldy, I ’ve got you a nice little pig.’ 

“ ‘ Dear me ! ’ says Huldy : ‘ where have you put him? ’ 

“ ‘Why, out there in the pigpen, to be sure.’ 

“ ‘Oh, dear me!’ says Huldy: ‘that ’s the well curb. 
There ain’t no pigpen built,’ says she. 

“ ‘Then I ’ve thrown the pig into the well!’ says 
the Parson. 

“Wal, Huldy she worked and worked, and finally she 
fished piggy out in the bucket, but he was dead as a 
doornail; and she got him out o’ the way quietly, and 
did n’t say much; and the Parson he took to a great 
Hebrew book in his study; and says he, ‘Huldy, I ain’t 
much in temporals,’ says he. Huldy says she kind o’ 
felt her heart go out to him, he was so sort o’ meek and 
helpless and lamed; and says she, ‘Wal, Parson Carryl, 
450 


THE MINISTER’S HOUSEKEEPER 

don’t trouble your head no more about it; I ’ll see to 
things;’ and sure enough, a week arter there was a nice 
pen, all shipshape, and two little white pigs that Huldy 
bought with the money for the butter she sold at the 
store. 

“ ‘Wal, Huldy,’ said the Parson, ‘you are a most 
amazin’ child : you don’t say nothin’, but you do more 
than most folks.’ 

“Arter that the Parson set sich store by Huldy that 
he come to her and asked her about everything, and it 
was amazin’ how everything she put her hand to pros- 
pered. Huldy planted marigolds and larkspurs, pinks 
and carnations, all up and down the path to the front 
door, and trained up mornin’-glories and scarlet runners 
round the windows. And she was always a-gettin’ a 
root here, and a sprig there, and a seed from somebody 
else — for Huldy was one o’ them that has the gift, so 
that ef you jist give ’em the leastest sprig of anything 
they make a great bush out of it right away; so that in 
six months Huldy had roses and geraniums and lilies, 
sich as it would a took a gardener to raise. The Parson 
he took no notice at fust; but when the yard was all 
ablaze with flowers he used to come and stand in a kind 
o’ maze at the front door, and say, ‘Beautiful, beautiful! 
Why, Huldy, I never see anything like it.’ And then 
when her work was done arternoons, Huldy would sit 
with her sewin’ in the porch, and sing and trill away till 
she ’d draw the meadow larks and the bobolinks and 
the orioles to answer her, and the great big elm tree 
overhead would get perfectly rackety with the birds; 
and the Parson, settin’ there in his study, would git to 
451 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


kind o’ dreamin’ about the angels, and golden harps, 
and the New Jerusalem; but he would n’t speak a word 
’cause Huldy she was jist like them wood thrushes, she 
never could sing so well when she thought folks was 
hearin’. Folks noticed, about this time, that the Par- 
son’s sermons got to be like Aaron’s rod, that budded 
and blossomed; there was things in ’em about flowers 
and birds, and more ’special about the music o’ heaven. 
And Huldy she noticed that ef there was a hymn run in 
her head while she was round a-workin’ the minister 
was sure to give it out next Sunday. You see, Huldy 
was jist like a bee: she always sung when she was 
workin’, and you could hear her trillin’, now down in 
the corn patch, while she was pickin’ the corn; and now 
in the buttery, while she was workin’ the butter; and 
now she ’d go singin’ down cellar, and then she ’d be 
singin’ up overhead, so that she seemed to fill a house 
chock full o’ music. 

“ Huldy was so sort o’ chipper and fair-spoken that 
she got the hired men all under her thumb : they come 
to her and took her orders jist as meek as so many 
calves; and she traded at the store, and kep’ the ac- 
counts, and she hed her eyes everywhere, and tied up 
all the ends so tight that there wa’n’t no gettin’ round 
her. She would n’t let nobody put nothin’ off on Parson 
Carryl, ’cause he was a minister. Huldy was allers up 
to anybody that wanted to make a hard bargain; and, 
afore he knew jist what he was about, she ’d got the 
best end of it, and everybody said that Huldy was the 
most capable gal that they ’d ever traded with. 

“Wal, come to the meetin’ of the Association, Mis’ 
452 


THE MINISTER’S HOUSEKEEPER 

Deakin Blodgett and Mis’ Pipperidge come callin’ up 
to the Parson’s, all in a stew, and offerin’ their services 
to get the house ready; but the doctor he jist thanked 
’em quite quiet, and turned ’em over to Huldy; and 
Huldy she told ’em that she ’d got everything ready, 
and showed ’em her pantries, and her cakes and her pies 
and her puddin’s, and took ’em all over the house; and 
they went peekin’ and pokin’, openin’ cupboard doors, 
and lookin’ into drawers; and they could n’t find so 
much as a thread out o’ the way, from garret to cellar 
and so they went off quite discontented. Arter that the 
women set a new trouble a-brewin’. Then they begun 
to talk that it was a year now since Mis’ Carryl died; 
and it railly was n’t proper such a young gal to be 
stayin’ there, who everybody could see was a-settin’ her 
cap for the minister. 

“Mis’ Pipperidge said that, so long as she looked on 
Huldy as the hired gal, she had n’t thought much about 
it; but Huldy was railly takin’ on airs as an equal, and 
appearin’ as mistress o’ the house in a way that would 
make talk if it went on. And Mis’ Pipperidge she driv 
round up to Deakin Abner Snow’s, and down to Mis’ 
’Lijah Perry’s, and asked them if they was n’t afraid 
that the way the Parson and Huldy was a-goin* on might 
make talk. And they said they had n’t thought on ’t 
before, but now, come to think on ’t, they was sure it 
would; and they all went and talked with somebody 
else, and asked them if they did n’t think it would make 
talk. So come Sunday, between meetin’s there wa’n’t 
nothin’ else talked about; and Huldy saw folks a-nod- 
din’ and a-winkin’, and a-lookin’ arter her, and she 
453 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

begun to feel drefful sort o’ disagreeable. Finally Mis’ 
Sawin she says to her, ‘My dear, did n’t you never think 
folks would talk about you and the minister?’ 

“ ‘No; why should they?’ says Huldy, quite inno- 
cent. 

“ ‘Wal, dear,’ says she, ‘I think it’s a shame; but 
they say you ’re tryin’ to catch him, and that it ’s so 
bold and improper for you to be courtin’ of him right 
in his own house — you know folks will talk — I 
thought I ’d tell you ’cause I think so much of you,’ 
says she. 

“Huldy was a gal of spirit, and she despised the talk, 
but it made her drefful uncomfortable; and when she 
got home at night she sat down in the mornin’-glory 
porch, quite quiet, and did n’t sing a word. 

“ The minister he had heard the same thing from one 
of his deakins that day; and when he saw Huldy so 
kind o’ silent, he says to her, ‘Why don’t you sing, my 
child?’ 

“He hed a pleasant sort o’ way with him, the minister 
had, and Huldy had got to likin’ to be with him, and it 
all come over her that perhaps she ought to go away; 
and her throat kind o’ filled up so she could n’t hardly 
speak; and, says she, ‘I can’t sing to-night.’ 

“Says he, ‘You don’t know how much good your 
singin’ has done me, nor how much good you have done 
me in all ways, Huldy. I wish I knew how to show my 
gratitude.’ 

“ ‘O sir!’ says Huldy, ‘ is it improper for me to be 
here?’ 

“ ‘No, dear,’ says the minister, ‘but ill-natured folks 
454 


THE MINISTER’S HOUSEKEEPER 

will talk; but there is one way we can stop it, Huldy — 
if you will marry me. You ’ll make me very happy, and 
I ’ll do all I can to make you happy. Will you? ’ 

“Wal, Huldy never told me jist what she said to the 
minister — gals never does give you the particulars of 
them ’ere things jist as you ’d like ’em — only I know 
the upshot and the hull on ’t was, that Huldy she did a 
consid’able lot o’ clear starchin’ and ironin’ the next 
two days; and the Friday o’ next week the minister and 
she rode over together to Dr. Lothrop’s in Oldtown; and 
the doctor, he jist made ’em man and wife. Wal, you ’d 
better believe there was a-starin’ and a-wonderin’ next 
Sunday mornin’ when the second bell was a-tollin’, and 
the minister walked up the broad aisle with Huldy, all 
in white, arm in arm with him, and he opened the 
minister’s pew, and handed her in as if she was a 
princess; for, you see. Parson Carryl come of a good 
family, and was a born gentleman, and had a sort o’ 
grand way o’ bein’ polite to women folks. Wal, I guess 
there was a-rus’lin’ among the bunnets. Mis* Pip- 
peridge gin a great bounce, like corn poppin’ on a 
shovel, and her eyes glared through her glasses at 
Huldy as if they ’d ’a’ sot her afire; and everybody in 
the meetin’house was a-starin’, I tell yew. But they 
could n’t none of ’em say nothin’ agin Huldy ’s looks; 
for there wa’n’t a crimp nor a frill about her that wa’n’t 
jis’ so; and her frock was white as the driven snow, and 
she had her bunnet all trimmed up with white ribbins; 
and all the fellows said the old doctor had stole a march, 
and got the handsomest gal in the parish. 

“Wal, arter meetin’ they all come round the Parson 
455 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


and Huldy at the door, shakin’ hands and laughin’; 
for by that time they was about agreed that they ’d got 
to let putty well alone. 

“ ‘Why, Parson Carryl,’ says Mis’ Deakin Blodgett, 
‘how you ’ve come it over us.’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ says the Parson, with a kind o’ twinkle in 
his eye. ‘I thought,’ says he, ‘as folks wanted to talk 
about Huldy and me, I ’d give ’em somethin’ wuth 
talkin’ about.’ ” 


“NELLIE” AT THE COUNTY 
FAIR 

By Henry A. Shute 

TN early October came the great event of the year — 
the Rockingham County Fair. To us who attend 
the huge Agricultural Fair of to-day, with its interest- 
ing but abominable Midway, its magnificent array of 
blooded stock, its splendid racing and horse show, its 
automobile and aeroplane death daring, its wonderful 
demonstration of farm implements and machinery, the 
old-time fairs may seem of trivial importance. 

But no. In our boyish vision the old Rockingham 
County Fair, held in Exeter in the ’sixties, was the 
most marvelous exhibition ever held on the American 
continent, its exhibits the most gorgeous, its horse 
racing the most exciting, its pulling matches with oxen, 
its ploughing matches with oxen and horses, the most 
stupendous contests ever dreamed of. Why, how long 
would an automobile truck of one hundred horse 
power stand up against old William Conner’s string of 
three yoke of Hereford oxen under the goad? “Huh!” 
and again, “Huh!” — with an accent of utter con- 
tempt. 

What of the pacing record of 1.58J as against the 
g.39i of some of the trotters and pacers of the ’sixties. 
Well, I guess if the modern trotters and pacers were put 
457 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


on the little half mile track in Exeter in the old days, 
beside old “Sheepskin,” with Wake-up Robinson in 
the sulky, or with Scott Locke behind “Nellie,” or Ben 
Adams behind “Old Regulator,” where would the 
modern pacers and trotters be? “Tell me that, fellers; 
jest tell me that! Huh! Well, I guess! Huh!” 

It was, indeed, a great time. The course of years 
has brought us the World’s Fair in Philadelphia in 
1876, the Chicago Exposition of 1893, that of Buffalo in 
1901, of St. Louis in 1904, of Seattle in 1909, and one 
is projected for San Francisco in 1915; but where are 
they in comparison with the old Rockingham Fair on 
the Gilman Field in Exeter, New Hampshire, U. S. A., 
in the ’sixties. Where are they, I say? And again, 
“Huh!” 

The old town was in the throes of preparation for 
weeks before the event. The field of afternoons was 
alive with teams working on the grounds. The track 
was leveled as far as practicable and the grass mowed 
and all refuse raked up and burned. The fences were 
repaired; new posts put in and all freshly white- 
washed. The sheds were repaired, and put in good 
shape; new booths erected for the exhibition of cattle, 
horses, sheep and swine, and fowl; ground broken for 
the pulling matches, and countless other tasks per- 
formed. As the grounds were surrounded by a high 
board fence, and as every year numerous peep-holes 
were excavated by small boys who were unable to get 
in, and who with great ingenuity knocked out knot- 
holes and made apertures by pulling out decayed parts 
of the boards, naturally a great amount of work was 
458 


“NELLIE” AT THE COUNTY FAIR 


absolutely necessary to put this bulwark in such con- 
dition that not even the prying eyes of the non-paying 
patrons of the fair could penetrate its secrets. 

Then there were hay, grain, and stubble to buy for 
the ruminants; the judges’ stand to be reinforced with 
additional props to its weather-beaten, spindly, and 
tottery legs, so that the hoarse gentleman with the huge 
black mustache who leaned out of his eyrie and occa- 
sionally bellowed “Go!” — but more often rang a large 
dinner bell to a procession of wildly scrabbling horses — 
and his companions, who compared watches at the end 
of a race and wrangled unseemly, might not come to 
everlasting smash as did one Humpty Dumpty. All 
this, done under the eyes of the small boys, did much to 
whet their ambitions for the future and to distract their 
attention from their daily school tasks. 

As the day of the fair approached, strange people 
began to arrive. A grimy individual with peaked cap, 
driving a rangy, gamy-looking animal in a prodigiously 
high-wheeled sulky, under which dangled a pail, a roll 
of blankets, an extra whip, and a pair of rubber boots, 
attracted immediate attention as a famous driver of an 
equally famous trotter or pacer. A diminutive, bandy- 
legged gentleman in topboots, much too large for his 
skinny legs, mounted on a flat saddle strapped to a 
giraffe-like equine, the rider’s knees on a level with his 
ears and his head sunk between his shoulders, bespoke 
some well-known and daring jockey with a runner in 
a direct line of descent from “Flying Childers.” And 
for a week or more the boys gathered at the track before 
and after school, on the chance of seeing these gentle- 
459 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


men fly round the track on a practice spin with these 
wonderful animals. 

Happy the day and fortunate the youth who could 
get the coveted opportunity to lead around a blanketed 
horse in the cooling-out process after a warming-up 
heat, or who could carry water for, or hand brushes or 
currycombs to, the drivers who acted as grooms, train- 
ers, and rubbers-down to their skinny charges. At 
about this time the local horsemen began to put on 
fearful and wonderful costumes and to drive through 
our streets at highly irregular gaits. To see old “ Wake- 
up” Robinson astride a two-story sulky coming down 
the street behind “Old Sheepskin,” so called because of 
the heavy sheepskin padding he wore on breastplate and 
breeching, his driver’s long black whiskers streaming 
away behind and over its wearer’s shoulders, his peaked 
cap with long visor pulled down over his eyes, and his 
wide grinning mouth emitting his hoarse war cry from 
which he derived his nickname “Wake up,” was a sight 
for the gods. 

On this occasion that eminently dignified and re- 
spectable storekeeper, Henry Dow, at the “Sign of the 
Big Boot,” an immensely tall and dignified man with 
a crest of long hair that reminded one forcibly of a blue 
jay, daily climbed aboard an unusually tall and spindly 
sulky and held the “webbings” over a dappled, switch- 
tailed pony of not over fourteen hands, which gave him 
the appearance of driving a sheared sheep, and jogged 
him up the street to the track. 

Even that pillar of the Advent Church, the venerable 
Nathaniel Churchill, could not refrain from exercising 
460 


“NELLIE” AT THE COUNTY FAIR 

his smooth roadsters in a road cart or four-wheeled 
skeleton wagon, although his religious scruples and 
strict puritanical up-bringing did not allow him to in- 
dulge in horse racing. Indeed, he did not even attend 
the fairs to witness it, although the struggle between 
his perfectly natural desire and his religious views must 
have caused the good old man untold suffering. And 
as he was unquestionably the best horse breeder and 
judge of horses in the county, and possibly in the State, 
it was a great pity and a loss to the town, and to him, 
for he had some real horses. 

The track upon which these memorable races were 
held was peculiar in several respects. In the back 
stretch there was for several rods a hollow where the 
road fell away rapidly, then as rapidly regained its 
level. Beyond this for fully one hundred yards was a 
dense growth of scrub pines that effectually concealed 
the progress of the horses from the anxious gaze of 
those financially or otherwise interested in the race, 
which added to the delightful uncertainty of the con- 
test, and made the choice of a favorite a most hazardous 
pursuit. Indeed, horses having a record in the thirties, 
and on that account acclaimed as sure winners, ofttimes 
came in disgracefully in the rear of two-forty-five trot- 
ters, and were lucky if they were inside the distance 
flag. 

It came about in this way: A horse driven at top 
speed at a trot or pace, suddenly dipping into the hol- 
low, was thrown out of its stride, lost its legs, and had 
to gallop to keep from falling. If by any possibility 
the horse was sturdy and steady enough to hold his 
461 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

stride when going downhill, he was practically certain 
to lose it coming out of the hollow. So it became the 
practice of the drivers on approaching the hollow to 
loosen their reins, stimulate their horses by a cut of the 
whip and a loud yell of encouragement, take both 
slopes at a furious gallop and trust to luck and skill 
to pull their horses to their stride just before they came 
out of the woods and into the gaze of the hoarse gentle- 
man with the enormous mustache, and of his horsy 
friends who compared watches at the finish. 

In this way a horse that could gallop might, although 
far behind at the dip, arrive at the home stretch in 
advance of a much faster and steadier trotter or pacer, 
and stand an excellent chance of winning the stakes. 
This led to many protests on the part of drivers who 
claimed that they were designedly fouled by rivals, and 
much unseemly language was indulged in by partici- 
pants in the races which led to fist fights, in which 
the whole neighborhood of the finish line became 
embroiled. 

Again, the strain on the fragile and ofttimes rickety 
wooden sulky wheels was very great at the rise from the 
dip, and occasionally splintering crashes were heard, 
and from the shadow of the woods bounded frantically 
kicking horses, driverless, and attached to one-wheeled 
and splintered sulkies, and followed at a distance by 
limping and swearing men, who on reaching the judges’ 
stand raised their hands to high Heaven and invoked 
curses on their successful rivals. Indeed, a horserace 
at the old Rockingham Fair was a thing of power- 
ful uncertainty, and of an attractiveness far superior 
462 


“NELLIE” AT THE COUNTY FAIR 


to anything of modern times, and the populace crowded 
to see and occasionally to take part in some of the excit- 
ing phases of the sport. 

Then, there was the slow race, where to insure the 
utmost speed possible and to prevent each owner or 
driver from trying to win the race by driving his horse 
as slowly as possible and taking up the greater part of 
the day in accomplishing a mile, each man entering a 
horse had to drive his rival’s horse and had his own 
driven by the rival, and each man stimulated his rival’s 
horse to his utmost speed in order to win the race by 
beating his own horse. 

This also created a great deal of interest; and as 
each man literally lambasted his rival’s horse, the 
finish of the race frequently brought the drivers into 
fistic collision as they viewed the welts on their dam- 
aged plugs. However, no professional training was 
necessary for this race, unless it might be training of 
a pugilistic nature which was of the greatest possible 
assistance. 

For many evenings before the opening day of the fair, 
the Exeter Cornet Band practiced with hideous intona- 
tion and terrific ensemble , which was the sweetest possi- 
ble music to the boys, who, with troops of others, spent 
their evenings in and around the high-school yard, 
chasing, dancing, wrestling, yelling, and jumping fences 
and straddling posts, while the band, aloft in a back 
room of the old town hall, long since abandoned as the 
seat of the municipality, and the home of Torrent No. 
3, collared and threw such masterpieces of music as 
the “King John March,” “Shoo, Fly, Doan Boddcr 
463 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Me,” the “Washington March,” the “Mulligan 
Guards,” and other fortissimo selections. 

Plupy, however, was always present at these re- 
hearsals, but never joined in these mad scenes of riot 
and jollity. Instead, he sat on the stairs of the band 
room, as near to the door as he could get, and drank in 
this flood and tempest of sound as one entranced. Poor 
boy; he was born with a most intense love of music, 
and thought a bandsman a being far higher than a 
governor or even a president. He had for a long time 
been trying to earn and save money enough for a 
cornet, but, being of a convivial and somewhat self- 
indulgent nature, had drawn on his fund so frequently 
that it had never risen to a point of accumulation at 
which the purchase of a cornet was remotely prob- 
able. But these rehearsals, far exceeding in number the 
regular weekly rehearsals, made another element in the 
popularity of the fair. 

Rooms at the various hostelries were engaged in ad- 
vance by gentlemen in high boots, paper collars, false 
bosoms, and detachable cuffs. Stall room for horses 
was bespoken. The clerks and proprietors of the 
Squamscott (Major's), the American (Levi’s), and the 
Granite House (Hoyt’s) became bustlingly active, 
affable, and polite. The saloons, long since defunct, 
thank Heaven! had laid in heavy supplies of fiery and 
controversial liquors and were confidently reckoning on 
a heavy business. 

Morning and night the hopeful farmer curried and 
rubbed down his pet cow or brood mare with colt, 
viewed his mammoth squash, his elephantine pumpkin, 
464 


“NELLIE” AT THE COUNTY FAIR 


apoplectic apple, or blushing peach. Daily the thought- 
ful wife watered and coaxed her brilliant asters, 
braided her rugs, and consulted the cook book and her 
neighbors for effective recipes for bread, pastry, and 
culinary dainties — all for exhibition in the “Ladies’ 
Department.” Octogenarians recalled their choicest 
tales of “ye olden time,” and had mother overhaul their 
broadcloth coats, their stovepipe hats, and gray woolen 
trousers. Octogenarianesses sewed the thirty-five 
hundredth patch of dimity or silk or calico, and “nary 
one alike,” on her patchwork quilt, and confidently 
awaited first, second, third prize, or honorable men- 
tion. 

The daughter of the house painted astonishing pic- 
tures in most amazing colors, or wove “God Bless 
Our Homes ” in rainbow hues, and drew astounding ani- 
mals in black and white, which she labeled for identi- 
fication as a matter of convenience to the judges. The 
scholars in the public schools prepared writing books, 
with a variety of ennobling sentiments, in the finest 
and most elaborate of long hand, while the drawing 
teacher took down from the wall of his room the pen- 
and-ink sketch of an impossible deer and an equally 
fabulous bird of paradise that had cost him prodigies 
of penmanship and marvels of careful erasure. 

Indeed, every kind and condition of men, women 
and children were vitally interested in this fair and 
looked foward to its event with the greatest of pleasur- 
able anxiety. The old fair was like the game of golf: 
every one who desired could play it with satisfaction. 
Unlike that game, every one wished to play the fair, 
465 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


and did; and with that condition of public sentiment, 
what wonder that our three boys were well-nigh crazy 
with delight. 

The schools were to have a three days’ vacation, the 
life of the fair. Inasmuch as the entire Prudential and 
School Committee were either officials of the fair or 
exhibitors, and the honored principals of the high and 
grammar schools were enlisted as marshals, and en- 
titled to wear the crimson sash and to brandish the 
baton covered with gilt paper and further embellished 
with ribbons, as a badge of authority, and as most of 
the female teachers had charge of the school exhibit of 
writing and compositions, a vacation was absolutely 
necessary, and the matter had been accomplished with 
a great deal of tact, diplomacy, and finesse on the part 
of these shrewd instructors. 

There were tents containing a two-headed calf, a 
horse with five legs, an educated pig, and an armless 
man who could write his name, or for that matter any 
person’s name, with his toes (there were no Poles, 
Russians, Lithuanians, or Armenians in America in 
those days), and would do so for a consideration. 
There was, of course, the living skeleton, his compan- 
ion, the pinky-white fat woman, and the dreadful 
bearded lady, the sleeping beauty whose bosom rose 
and fell rhythmically as long as Jimmy turned the 
crank. There was a long, polished case on wheels, with 
small peepholes of polished magnifying glass, through 
which holes, at the modest price of one penny, you gazed 
enthralled upon colored prints from the then very re- 
cent war of the rebellion, with which you were prob- 
466 


“NELLIE” AT THE COUNTY FAIR 


ably familiar from the pages of Harper’s or some other 
magazines, but without the coloring and enlargement. 
Pie and coffee stands, lemonade booths, ginger-pop 
stalls, and counters for the serving of plain beans and 
brown bread were knocked together of pine boards and 
tenpenny nails. 

It would require a book to tell the various attractions, 
exhibits and amusing episodes of that fair. They 
were crowded into three days, and it was, indeed, three 
days of thrilling enjoyment for the boys, and Plupy 
was especially fortunate in securing a season ticket in 
this manner: Charles Taylor was an official of the fair 
management, occupying the position of commissary- 
general to the live-stock department; that is, he was the 
official purchaser and distributor of the hay, grain 
and roots, straw, and other provender for the various 
kinds and conditions of animal in the fair; and as 
such he was a very busy man, and to facilitate his rapid 
transit he had borrowed of his particular friend George, 
Plupy ’s little mare, Nellie. This loaning of the horse 
gave, as may be supposed, peculiar privileges to Plupy, 
which that youth extended, whenever possible, to his 
two cronies, Beany and Pewt. 

It also transpired that the use of Nellie .by the 
worthy commissary furnished a good deal of excite- 
ment for our friends and for the patrons of the fair, 
and a great deal of embarrassment to the bookmakers 
and betting men. Nellie was quartered in the horse 
sheds with distinguished company, having a stall of 
her own and other furniture necessary to the comfort 
of a race horse, to which she had not been accustomed 
467 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


but which she took to like a duck to water; for one of the 
grooms and rubbers-down of the trotters and pacers 
daily rubbed, curried, bandaged, hot-watered, cold- 
creamed, massaged, and in other ways testified to his 
appreciation of certain forbidden favors extended to 
him by the good-natured but designing commissary. 

In this way, and with generous feeding, the little 
animal was ready to jump out of her skin with spirits, 
and as she darted down from place to place on her 
errands with the commissary she attracted much at- 
tention by her good looks and her rapid gait. She 
was a bit tender in her forefeet for pavements, which 
circumstance had brought her within the range of 
Plupy’s father’s modest pocketbook; but care and 
the soft country roads had practically cured her, and 
a week’s care by an expert stableman had worked 
wonders. 

There were races during the afternoons of the three 
days, which races commenced at two o’clock and were 
generally finished by five, unless dead heats rendered 
an extra heat or two necessary to a decision. Beginning 
with the lower-class horses, the 3-minute class, the 2.48, 
the free slow race. The second-day card was the 2.44 
and the 2.40 class and the pacing race for stallions. 
The third, which was the great day, offered, as a climax 
programme, the 2.36 and 2.30 trots and the free-for-all 
with a purse of $175 — with $100 for first, $50 for sec- 
ond, and $25 for third horse. In this free-for-all any 
one, who fancied his horse and could raise an entry 
fee of ten dollars, could take part in the race; but, as 
the purse brought out the best horses, it was seldom 
468 


“NELLIE” AT THE COUNTY FAIR 


that a really mediocre horse was started. Indeed, it oc- 
cured not infrequently that a horse that had pre- 
viously trotted in a low-time race, not previously hold- 
ing a fast record, would make it extremely interesting 
for the favorites, and render the long-shot men in the 
betting correspondingly jubilant at the close of the 
race. It was this that made the free-for-all the race 
\ par excellence of the fair, and the nerves of the book- 
makers and betting men exceedingly ban joey during 
the heats. 

The days had passed in a riot of good times for the 
boys, whose appetites were insatiable. The good old 
town had an air of demoralization. Paper littered the 
streets leading to the grounds. Unfortunates without 
legs sat on the pavements and ground hideous and un- 
finished symphonies on tiny box organs : I can distinctly 
remember some of these tunes after a lapse of over 
forty years. Demoralized county sports leaned against 
posts and spat and swore. Marshals in gaudy sashes 
clattered up the streets. There were village cut-ups 
with their girls promenading with red balloons and rid- 
ing whips bound in blue and crimson-paper ribbons. 
A man who could play phenomenal cornet solos on a 
tin tunnel, including the “Wood-up Quickstep,” called 
crowds to his broad platform, where he sold them 
bottles of cure-all warranted effective for all ills ranging 
from bunions to religious controversies. The town 
hall was the theater of the horticultural, patchwork, 
tidy, and art exhibit, and the steps were littered with 
peanuts and the remains of countless lunches. The 
governor had arrived, and was escorted to the fair 
469 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


grounds by the band and a detachment of veteran 
soldiers and the entire force of marshals in a champing, 
curveting line. The crowd was immense; the two races 
had been trotted amid great excitement; and the final 
race of the day, the free-for-all, was called. 

Just before the last heat of the previous race, Plupy, 
who had accompanied a sweating trotter to the stables 
to see him rubbed down and cooled — to him an in- 
teresting sight — and to drink his fill of the spicy 
and instructive remarks of the stableman, overheard 
something that filled him with an idea almost too big 
for him to grasp. One of the rubbers, incensed at the 
poor showing of his charge, profanely allowed to his 
mates that he could take that little bay mare, Nellie, 
and clean out half the racers in the stable. Plupy 
gasped at the brilliancy of the idea that suddenly 
struck him, and he edged nearer the group. 

“Say, that’s my horse you are talking about; d’ ye 
s’pose they would gimme a chance?” he asked. 

The grooms laughed and said, “Any one can enter 
a horse for the free-for-all that can raise ten dollars for 
the entry fee.” 

Plupy gasped at the enormity of the amount, sighed 
at the recollection of his depleted cornet fund, and his 
jaw dropped in despair. Had he known this at the 
opening of the fair, he and Beany and Pewt could have 
pooled their possessions and have made up the entry 
fee; but, alas, to quote again from Dumas’ immortal, 
hero, “Nothing remained but bitter memories.” 

But the groom suddenly came to his assistance. 
“Look here, fellers, what’s the reason we can’t dress 
470 


“NELLIE” AT THE COUNTY FAIR 


this young feller up in a driver’s suit and cap, hook up 
the mare, and have him drive in with the rest? The 
chances are that nobody will know the difference, and 
he may get a chance. Whadger say?” he demanded. 

It is not my purpose to record here just about what 
they said. It was very much to the point. Would the 
little feller do it? The little feller would, and rapid 
preparation began. Plupy was invested with a spotted 
shirt, a yellow cap with an immense visor, a whip, and 
a pair of gloves, all of which were much too large for 
him. The cap in particular rested on his ears, the gen- 
erous spread of which prevented him from being 
totally eclipsed. In fact, he looked like a suit that had 
been discarded and thrown into a corner. As he de- 
sired above all things to escape recognition and ex ul- 
sion, this was very much to his taste. Meanwhile the 
grooms instructed him in the code of the track. 

“You’ll hafter take th’ outside, the farthest horse 
from the pole horse. In turnin’ to score, allers turn 
to the left. Don’t let yer hoss break at the line, or 
ye’ll be sent back. It don’t matter if you are a bit 
behind at the start; you can make it up with a good 
horse; but don’t start ahead of the pole horse or they’ll 
ring you back. ’N’ if you git a chance to pass a hoss, 
don’t cut in ahead of him unless you are at least a 
length ahead or they’ll protest you. Mind this; don’t 
git the pole behind a leadin’ hoss, or you’ll git in a 
pocket.” 

“What’s that?” asked Plupy. 

“Why, it’s this: If you git behind a hoss at the rail, 
’n’ another hoss gits on your right, there ain’t no way 
v 471 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


to git out ’nless you jumps over or pulls yer hoss back 
’n’ goes round ’em, ’n’ yer can’t do neither ’thout losin’ 
the race. Unnerstan’?” 

Plupy understood. 

“’N’ one thing more; don’t try to beat everybody 
the first time round, ’n’ don’t let go of yer hoss when 
a driver runs by yer. Runnin’ don’t count, ’n’ no 
feller can run by the wire a winner. Th’ only place to 
run a hoss is when you get to the dip; run her then, 
but take her down to a trot as soon as you get outer 
the dip. Some of the green drivers run their hosses 
until they come out of the woods, ’n’ by that time th’ 
hoss has got into his runnin’ stride ’n’ it ’s hard to pull 
him down, ’n’ a square trotter may beat him out at the 
finish. 

“Now, don’t get excited. Talk to your horse quiet 
like. Th’ other drivers will yell like Indians ’n’ try to 
make yer mare break. Just ’tend to keepin’ yer mare 
straight, ’n’ when you come outer the woods th’ 
second time round, put for the wire as fast as you can 
’ithout makin’ her break. Now, don’t be a bit afraid; 
they can’t do no more to ye than takin’ yer outer the 
race, ’n’ I guess ye ’ll git one heat trotted, ennyway. 
There goes the bell now. Wait till most of ’em gits out. 
Sorry ye ain’t got time for a warmin’-up heat, but ’t 
won’t be safe. 

“There goes old Wake-up Robinson with ‘Sheep- 
skin, ’n’ Benson with ‘Flyin’ Cloud,’ ’n’ Nealey 
Travers with ‘Billy Boy,’ ’n’ old man Dow with that 
dock-tailed pony; beat him, ennyway, whatever you 
do; ’n’ hello! there’s Jim Flanders with ‘Rex.’ You’ll 
472 


“NELLIE” AT THE COUNTY FAIR 


do well if you can get inside the distance with that hoss. 
He ’s flighty ’n’ if he gets nervous, Jim can’t keep him 
on his feet. Go ahead now,” said the groom, who had 
been examining the harness and sulky while talking, 
loosening a strap here, tightening one there, pulling 
the sulky back to see that the little mare had breeching 
room. “Go ahead.” And giving Plupy a last instruc- 
tion to keep cool and keep his horse cool, he gave him a 
clap on the shoulder and the little mare a pat on the 
flank, and they were off. 

To this day Plupy has never forgotten his intense 
pride and fear as he trotted on the track in company 
with these great drivers: pride in his horse and in his 
own importance and fear that he might be detected 
and humiliated before the crowd, and in particular fear 
that his father, who with his sisters was in a row of 
seats, the predecessor of the grand stand of later days, 
might recognize the horse and him and publicly lam- 
baste him. Knowing, however, that Nellie, in her 
strange harness and vehicle, looked unfamiliar and like 
a rat, and feeling that he looked like nothing else under 
the sun, he hoped not to be recognized. 

As he drove to the scoring line, there was a laugh at 
his ridiculous appearance, but admiring comments on 
his horse, and something in the gait of the little mare 
at once caught the crowd. 

“Go it, Tom Thumb,” bellowed a big voice to the 
small boy. 

“Don’t let ’em break yer hoss, scarecrow,” shouted 
another. 

“Look out for old Wake-up,” continued a third. 

473 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Plupy nodded and grinned, but his heart was thump- 
ing so loudly that he could hear it, and there was a 
lump in his throat that nearly choked him to death. 
Then the bell rang, the mob of horses started with a 
rush for the wire, and with them charged the little 
mare, pulling double. Plupy was behind on the out- 
side, but Rex broke, and the bell rang. Plupy pulled 
and talked the mare down and turned her, nearly 
colliding with Sheepskin and earning a hearty curse 
from old Wake-up. 

As they came back to the score, Plupy’s father 
whose eye had been caught by Nellie the moment she 
entered the track and who had been staring intently 
at her, suddenly recognized her and her driver, and 
hurried out of the stand and rushed toward the track 
shouting to his metamorphosed son to “come out of 
that.” 

He was too late, however, for the bell rang, and with 
a rush they started for the wire, just as Beany and 
Pewt, with eyes standing out a full inch, shrieked, 
“Plupy! It’s Plupy,” and jumped up and down in 
excitement. 

The horses in an unbroken line swept by the wire. 
“Go!” bellowed the starter. 

The crowd cheered. It was a start. Sheepskin had 
the pole, and at once took the lead, closely followed by 
Flying Cloud. A half length behind, with his nose at 
Flying Cloud’s saddle, came Billy Boy, with the Dow 
dapple about on a line and a full length behind, and on 
the outside came Nellie and Rex, going like clockwork. 
Along the first half the dapple gave way to the little 
474 


“NELLIE” AT THE COUNTY FAIR 


mare, who came up to Billy Boy’s throatlatch, with 
Rex even with the mare, and Rex’s driver grinning 
good-naturedly at the boy. 

“Steady she is, lad,” he cautioned. “I’m goin’ to 
win this race if Rex is not too cranky; but do your 
best; don’t let your horse get away from you at the 
dip.” 

Plupy nodded and watched his mare. The wind 
was singing in his ears and he was tingling all over. 

They were at the dip, and the horses took it at a 
furious gallop, Plupy keeping well to the outside for 
safety and anxious not to unduly excite the mare, and 
had her going steadily fifty feet beyond the dip, pass- 
ing Billy Boy, whose driver had trouble in pulling him 
down. Meantime Rex had left the mare, was rapidly 
overtaking Flying Cloud and Sheepskin, going like a 
machine with a beautiful stride, and they passed the 
wire the first time down with Sheepskin a nose ahead 
of Rex, who was rapidly overtaking him, Flying 
Cloud at Rex’s wheel, and three lengths behind came 
Plupy’s little mare, leading Billy Boy by a short head, 
while the dappled pony trailed four or five lengths in 
the rear. 

The people yelled encouragement. 

“Go it!” roared one man leaning over the rail. 

“That’s the boy for you!” shouted another. 

“Steady!” shouted the groom; “keep her steady; 
don’t let ’em break her!” 

Pewt and Beany cheered shrilly, “Go it, Plupe! 
Put on the whip ! Beat old Whiskers ! ” 

Plupy’s father waved frantically, forgetting his 
475 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

scruples as he saw how the game little mare stuck to 
the leaders. 

One hundred yards from the wire on the first quarter 
of the second lap, Rex put on a burst of speed that left 
Sheepskin and Flying Cloud in the rear, and the little 
mare lost a half length in the spurt which the gray 
made to keep up with Rex, but gained a hah length on 
Billy Boy as that trotter felt the strain of the pace. 

Then Rex went off his feet in a tangled break, and 
before he reached the dip was passed by both the gray 
and Flying Cloud and went down the incline neck and 
neck with Billy Boy, whose driver had driven his horse 
to a gallop a good hundred yards from the dip and 
had passed Plupy’s mare, to the speechless dismay of 
Beany and Pewt and of the crowd, whose sympathies 
were with the boy and the gallant little horse. 

“Nealey’s too much for the boy; beat him by a 
trick,” said one. 

“Too bad,” said another; “I thought the little fel- 
low might have a chance, but he don’t know the ropes 
like an old-timer.” 

“He’ll be out of it before they get out of the woods. 
Watch out now,” as the whistling of whips, the yells 
of the drivers, and the rapid beat of flying hoofs were 
heard. “Here they come,” yelled hundreds of voices, 
and the crowd rose to its feet in excitement as the horses 
burst out of the woods, Sheepskin a length to the front, 
its driver leaning forward, plying the whip and yelling 
his war cry of “Wake-up, thar! Wake-up, thar!” in 
a voice like a foghorn, while at his wheel was Flying 
Cloud going like a whirlwind and Benson yelling like 
476 


“NELLIE” AT THE COUNTY FAIR 


a demon, neck and neck with Billy Boy, whose gallop 
had rested him and whose driver cursed and whipped 
as the trotter went off his feet. But what was this? 
For still on the outside two lengths to the rear and two 
hundred yards from the finish came a little bay mare 
with her neck stretched forward, her trim ears laid 
flat to her head, her mane flying, and her slim legs 
going like piston rods in a wild engine, while on the 
sulky, with hair flying and cap gone, eyes glazing and 
shrill voice encouraging the mare in a high squeaky 
falsetto, sat Plupy. 

The crowd went wild. Shouts, shrieks, bellows of en- 
couragement, and hoarse directions were showered on 
the driver. Beany and Pewt yelled like ones possessed, 
while the groom leaned over the rail until he held on 
by his eyelids. 

She has passed the plunging Billy Boy; she is up to 
the Cloud’s wheel, to his flank, his saddle, she creeps 
up to his throatlatch; she is by him, a head, a neck, a 
half length; she is clear, and has lapped the big gray 
fifty yards from the wire. 

The driver’s whiskers stand out straight behind 
him; he sees the little bay head at his elbow, and down 
comes his whip on the gray again and again. He yells 
and swings his whip, wildly trying to break up the 
little mare; but he might as well try to stop the flight 
of time. She reaches his saddle, then his shoulders, 
and then with a mighty burst of speed passes him and 
sweeps across the wire a length ahead. 

How the crowd roar and cheer! The groom comes 
rushing into the ring and unchecks the little mare, 
477 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


blankets her, and gives her a mouthful of water. She 
is dripping, and her nostrils are dilated and her satin 
skin a network of throbbing veins. Other grooms rush 
in and shout profane congratulations to Plupy, who is 
in a daze of delight. He can scarcely believe it true. 
He has beaten all these race horses in a real race. 
Nellie has done it, and both he and Nellie are famous. 
“We done it!” he exclaimed in amazement. 

But as the grooms led away the horses, in front of 
the judges’ stand the drivers, headed by old Wake-up, 
wrangled and protested against the race. 

“That mare hain’t entered, V wa’n’t on the score 
card, ’n’ ain’t got no right to be in the race,” barked 
Wake-up hoarsely, brandishing his whip. 

“Shut up, Whiskers,” said a man in the crowd; 
“you’re mad ’cause the little feller beat ye!” 

“I can beat that mare ten lengths in the half mile 
and distance her in the mile; ’n’ I’ll do it, too, if she 
is entered fair and square,” yelled Wake-up, his 
whiskers bristling with rage. 

“Ah-li, you could n’t beat a stone boat hitched to 
oxen with that old crow bait,” shouted another; “why 
don’t you give the boy a chance?” And the crowd 
cheered and groaned. 

“I’ll pay the entry fee,” yelled a man, pulling out 
a roll of bills, “and I’ll back that mare and the boy for 
anything any one wants to cover.” And he flourished 
his bills at the crowd amid cheers. 

“I protest; ’t ain’t reg’lar; th’ mare had oughter 
been entered before the race; I protest,” yelled the 
driver of Flying Cloud to the judges. 

478 



WAKE-UP ROBINSON BEHIND OLD SHEEPSKIN 




































































■ i s t 

* 





















































































































“NELLIE” AT THE COUNTY FAIR 


“Don’t blame ye; I’d do it if I hed to drive thet ole 
caliker plug of yours,” yelled another in the crowd, at 
which there was a shout of laughter. 

“We gotter drive horses ’cordin’ to the rules,” barked 
Wake-up. 

“That’s more’n you ever did, old furze brush; ye 
tried to break up the boy’s hoss when he was passin ’ ye. 
You drive ’cordin’ to the rules! You never did that in 
yer life,” said another angrily. 

“What do you say, Flanders?” some one asked the 
driver of Rex, who had said nothing. 

“I say, give the boy a chance. I’ll beat him if I can, 
but I ’ll beat him fair. And I ’ll pay his entry fee if none 
of his friends will,” said Flanders, with a good-natured 
grin. “The boy ’s all right, and the mare ’s all right, and 
I say, give ’em a fair chance at the purse.” 

“Good boy!” yelled an enthusiast; “that’s what I 
call square. 

“Give the boy a chance,” shouted the crowd, jos- 
tling and crowding around the judges’ stand. “Give 
’em a chance,” they roared, “or we’ll pull the stand 
down.” 

“Gentlemen,” roared the big- voiced starter, “this 
race is goin’ to be on the square, whether you pull the 
stand down or not. I ’d like to see the boy win, but he 
did n’t enter his hoss before the race, and he can’t 
do it after one heat. The protest is sustained.” 

“Aw! Pull him out of the stand! Give us a fair 
judge. Call off the race,” roared the crowd, surging 
toward the stand. 

Things were looking very bad for the judges and the 
479 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


drivers when Plupy’s father, who had been making a 
hurried but devious passage through the crowd of 
people and carriages, jostled his way through the jam 
in front of the judges’ stand. 

“Look here, gentlemen,” he said, facing the crowd; 
“hold on just a minute. I’ve some interest in this 
matter. The boy is mine and the mare is mine, and 
I’m not going to allow my boy to drive another heat. 
I did n’t enter the mare, and did n’t know anything 
about it until I saw her in the track. I came here to 
see the race and I believe in it, but as long as my boy 
is under my authority, he does n’t drive race horses. 
When he grows up, he can do as he pleases, but not 
now.” 

The crowd was variously affected. Some applauded, 
some hissed, some groaned. 

But Flanders shouted, “Gentlemen! the boy’s 
father is right and the judge is right. Better let the 
race go on. I want to get Mr. Robinson’s scalp, my- 
self,” he added, grinning broadly, at which the crowd 
cheered and laughed uproariously. 

“One word more, gentlemen,” said Plupy’s father. 
“If Mr. Robinson is anxious to see a race, I’ll put up 
a hundred dollars against his fifty that I can step into 
the sulky and beat him with that little mare, one heat, 
best two in three, or three in five, and I never drove a 
race horse in my life.” 

“Ah-h-r-r!” sneered that gentleman; “you could n’t 
raise a fifty cents.” 

“Couldn’t eh?” said Plupy’s father, pulling a wad 
of bills out of his pocket and flourishing them before 
480 


“NELLIE” AT THE COUNTY FAIR 


Wake-up’s face. “That money was earned honestly 
and not by pulling good horses or throwing races. Now, 
cover it if you dare, and bring out your horse. Only 
you ’ll drive fair for once, you old whisk broom, you ; 
for if you try any games with me, I ’ll not only beat 
you, but as soon as the race is over, I’ll pull you out 
of that gig of yours and dust this whole track with 
that old stable broom you wear on your face.” And 
he thrust his fist full of bills so close to that bewhisk- 
ered gentleman’s face that he took several quick steps 
backward. 

This time there was no question about the applause. 
The crowd yelled with delight and jeered the discom- 
fited driver as he hastily strode to the stables without 
covering the bet. Whereat Plupy’s father grasped his 
staring and open-mouthed son by the hand, and said, 
“Come, hurry up get out of that rig of yours and don’t 
you ever do that again as long as you live.” And they 
hurried to the stables, followed by Beany and Pewt 
and a train of retainers, where they found the groom 
hard at work on the mare. 

When told of the decision the groom was exceedingly 
profane, and allowed there was no justice in this 
world anyway. 

But for the glow of winning this heat Plupy would 
have been bitterly disappointed in not securing a part 
of the purse; but after the race, in which old Sheep- 
skin and his driver were disgracefully beaten, not only 
by Rex but by Flying Cloud and Billy Boy, to the 
huge and outspoken delight of the crowd, Flanders, 
the good-natured driver, sought him out and gave him 
481 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

a five-dollar bill and several hundred dollars’ worth of 
good advice in regard to racing. 

“Keep out of it, boy. Horse-racing never did any 
man any good. It leads to drinking and card playing 
and gambling. I’m making money now at it, but 
I’m going to quit it as soon as I can. This may be 
my last race. I hope so, for I’ve seen too many men 
go to the devil with it. The saddest thing in the world 
is a broken-down driver, and they mostly become 
broken down before they quit. So promise me you’ll 
keep out of it, boy.” And he offered his hand. 

Plupy promised, and shook on it; a promise, I am 
glad to say, he has kept to this day. 


REBECCA’S JOURNEY 

Dy Kate Douglas Wiggin 

T HE old stagecoach was rumbling along the dusty 
road that runs from Maplewood to Riverboro. 
The day was as warm as midsummer, though it was 
only the middle of May, and Mr. Jeremiah Cobb was 
favoring the horses as much as possible, yet never losing 
sight of the fact that he carried the mail. The hills 
were many, and the reins lay loosely in his hands as 
he lolled back in his seat and extended one foot and 
leg luxuriously over the dashboard. His brimmed hat 
of worn felt was well pulled over his eyes, and he re- 
volved a quid of tobacco in his left cheek. 

There was one passenger in the coach — a small 
dark-haired person in a glossy buff calico dress. She 
was so slender and so stiffly starched that she slid from 
space to space on the leather cushions, though she 
braced herself against the middle seat with her feet 
and extended her cotton-gloved hands on each side, 
in order to maintain some sort of balance. Whenever 
the wheels sank farther than usual into a rut, or 
jolted suddenly over a stone, she bounded involun- 
tarily into the air, came down again, pushed back her 
funny little straw hat, and picked up or settled more 
firmly a small pink sunshade, which seemed to be her 
chief responsibility — unless we except a bead purse, 
483 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


into which she looked whenever the condition of the 
roads would permit, finding great apparent satisfaction in 
that its precious contents neither disappeared nor grew 
less. Mr. Cobb guessed nothing of these harassing 
details of travel, his business being to carry people to 
their destinations, not, necessarily, to make them com- 
fortable on the way. Indeed he had forgotten the very 
existence of this one unnoteworthy little passenger. 

When he was about to leave the post office in Maple- 
wood that morning, a woman had alighted from a 
wagon, and coming up to him, inquired whether this 
were the Riverboro stage, and if he were Mr. Cobb. 
Being answered in the affirmative, she nodded to a 
child who was eagerly waiting for the answer, and who 
ran toward her as if she feared to be a moment too 
late. The child might have been ten or eleven years 
old perhaps, but whatever the number of her summers, 
she had an air of being small for her age. Her mother 
helped her into the stage coach, deposited a bundle 
and a bouquet of lilacs beside her, superintended the 
“roping on” behind of an old hair trunk, and finally 
paid the fare, counting out the silver with great care. 

“I want you should take her to my sisters’ in River- 
boro,” she said. “Do you know Mirandy and Jane 
Sawyer? They live in the brick house.” 

Lord bless your soul, he knew ’em as well as if he’d 
made ’em! 

“Well, she’s going there, and they’re expecting her. 
Will you keep an eye on her, please? If she can get out 
anywhere and get with folks, or get anybody in to 
keep her company, she’ll do it. Good-bye, Rebecca; 

484 


REBECCA’S JOURNEY 


try not to get into any mischief, and sit quiet, so you ’ll 
look neat an’ nice when you get there. Don’t be any 
trouble to Mr. Cobb. — You see, she’s kind of ex- 
cited. — We came on the cars from Temperance yes- 
terday, slept all night at my cousin’s, and drove from 
her house — eight miles it is — this morning.” 

“Good-bye, mother, don’t worry; you know it is n’t 
as if I had n’t traveled before.” 

The woman gave a short sardonic laugh and said in 
an explanatory way to Mr. Cobb, “She ’s been to 
Wareham and stayed over night; that is n’t much to 
be journey-proud on!” 

“It was traveling , mother,” said the child eagerly 
and willfully. “It was leaving the farm, and putting up 
lunch in a basket, and a little riding and a little steam 
cars, and we carried our nightgowns.” 

“Don’t tell the whole village about it, if we did,” 
said the mother, interrupting the reminiscences of this 
experienced voyager. “Haven’t I told you before,” 
she whispered, in a last attempt at discipline, “that 
you should n’t talk about nightgowns and stockings 
and — things like that, in a loud tone of voice, and 
especially when there’s men folks round?” 

“I know, mother, I know, and I won’t. All I want 
to say is ” — here Mr. Cobb gave a cluck, slapped the 
reins, and the horses started sedately on their daily 
task — “all I want to say is that it is a journey when” 
— the stage was really under way now and Rebecca 
had to put her head out of the window over the door 
in order to finish her sentence — “it is a journey when 
you carry a nightgown!” 

485 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


The objectionable word, uttered in a high treble, 
floated back to the offended ears of Mrs. Randall, who 
watched the stage out of sight, gathered up her pack- 
ages from the bench at the store door, and stepped 
into the wagon that had been standing at the hitching 
post. As she turned the horse’s head towards home she 
rose to her feet for a moment, and shading her eyes 
with her hand, looked at a cloud of dust in the dim 
distance. 

“Mirandy ’ll have her hands full, I guess,” she said 
to herself; “but I should n’t wonder if it would be the 
making of Rebecca.” 

All this had been half an hour ago, and the sun, the 
heat, the dust, the contemplation of errands to be 
done in the great metropolis of Milltown, had lulled Mr. 
Cobb’s never active mind into complete oblivion as to 
his promise of keeping an eye on Rebecca. 

Suddenly he heard a small voice above the rattle 
and rumble of the wheels and the creaking of the har- 
ness. At first he thought it was a cricket, a tree toad, 
or a bird, but having determined the direction from 
which it came, he turned his head over his shoulder and 
saw a small shape hanging as far out of the window as 
safety would allow. A long black braid of hair 
swung with the motion of the coach; the child held her 
hat in one hand and with the other made ineffectual 
attempts to stab the driver with her microscopic 
sunshade. 

“Please let me speak!” she called. 

Mr. Cobb drew up the horses obediently. 

“Does it cost any more to ride up there with you?” 

486 


REBECCA’S JOURNEY 


she asked. “It’s so slippery and shiny down here, and 
the stage is so much too big for me, that I rattle round 
in it till I’m ’most black and blue. And the windows 
are so small I can only see pieces of things, and I’ve 
’most broken my neck stretching round to find out 
whether my trunk has fallen off the back. It’s my 
mother’s trunk, and she’s very choice of it.” 

Mr. Cobb waited until this flow of conversation, or 
more properly speaking this flood of criticism, had 
ceased, and then said jocularly: — 

“You can come up if you want to; there ain’t no 
extry charge to sit side o’ me.” Whereupon he helped 
her out, “boosted” her up to the front seat, and re- 
sumed his own place. 

Rebecca sat down carefully, smoothing her dress 
under her with painstaking precision, and putting her 
sunshade under its extended folds between the driver 
and herself. This done she pushed back her hat, 
pulled up her darned white cotton gloves, and said 
delightedly: — 

“Oh! this is better! This is like traveling! I am a 
real passenger now, and down there I felt like our setting 
hen when we shut her up in a coop. I hope we have a 
long, long ways to go?” 

“Oh! we’ve only just started on it,” Mr. Cobb re- 
sponded genially; “it’s more’n two hours.” 

“Only two hours,” she sighed. “That will be half 
past one; mother will be at cousin Ann’s, the chil- 
dren at home will have had their dinner, and Hannah 
cleared all away. I have some lunch, because mother 
said it would be a bad beginning to get to the brick 
487 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


house hungry and have Aunt Mirandy have to get me 
something to eat the first thing. — It ’s a good growing 
day, is n’t it? ” 

“It is, certain; too hot, most. Why don’t you put 
up your parasol?” 

She extended her dress still farther over the article 
in question as she said, “Oh dear no! I never put it 
up when the sun shines; pink fades awfully, you know, 
and I only carry it to meetin’ cloudy Sundays; some- 
times the sun comes out all of a sudden, and I have a 
dreadful time covering it up; it’s the dearest thing in 
life to me, but it’s an awful care.” 

At this moment the thought gradually permeated 
Mr. Jeremiah Cobb’s slow-moving mind that the 
bird perched by his side was a bird of very different 
feather from those to which he was accustomed in his 
daily drives. He put the whip back in its socket, 
took his foot from the dashboard, pushed his hat 
back, blew his quid of tobacco into the road and hav- 
ing thus cleared his mental decks for action, he took 
his first good look at the passenger, a look which 
she met with a grave, childlike stare of friendly 
curiosity. 

The buff calico was faded, but scrupulously clean, 
and starched within an inch of its life. From the little 
standing ruffle at the neck the child’s slender throat 
rose very brown and thin, and the head looked small 
to bear the weight of dark hair that hung in a thick 
braid to her waist. She wore an odd little visored cap 
of white leghorn, which may either have been the latest 
thing in children’s hats, or some bit of ancient finery 
488 


REBECCA’S JOURNEY 


furbished up for the occasion. It was trimmed with a 
twist of buff ribbon and a cluster of black and orange 
porcupine quills, which hung or bristled stiffly over one 
ear, giving her the quaintest and most unusual appear- 
ance. Her face was without color and sharp in out- 
line. As to features, she must have had the usual 
number, though Mr. Cobb’s attention never proceeded 
so far as nose, forehead, or chin, being caught on the 
way and held fast by the eyes. Rebecca’s eyes were 
like faith — “the substance of things hoped for, the 
evidence of things not seen.” Under her delicately 
etched brows they glowed like two stars, their dancing 
lights half hidden in lustrous darkness. Their glance 
was eager and full of interest, yet never satisfied; their 
steadfast gaze was brilliant and mysterious, and had 
the effect of looking directly through the obvious to 
something beyond, in the object, in the landscape, in 
you. They had never been accounted for, Rebecca’s 
eyes. The school teacher and the minister at Tem- 
perance had tried and failed; the young artist who 
came for the summer to sketch the red barn, the ruined 
mill, and the bridge ended by giving up all these local 
beauties and devoting herself to the face of a child — 
a small, plain face illuminated by a pair of eyes car- 
rying such messages, such suggestions, such hints of 
sleeping power and insight, that one never tired of 
looking into their shining depths, nor of fancying that 
what one saw there was the reflection of one’s own 
thought. 

Mr. Cobb made none of these generalizations; his 
remark to his wife that night was simply to the effect 
489 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

that whenever the child looked at him she knocked him 
galley-west. 

“Miss Ross, a lady that paints, gave me the sun- 
shade,” said Rebecca, when she had exchanged looks 
with Mr. Cobb, and learned his face by heart. “Did 
you notice the pinked double ruffle and the white 
tip and handle? They ’re ivory. The handle is scarred, 
you see. That’s because Fanny sucked and chewed 
it in meeting when I was n’t looking. I ’ve never felt 
the same to Fanny since.” 

“Is Fanny your sister?” 

“She ’s one of them.” 

“How many are there of you?” 

“Seven. There’s verses written about seven chil- 
dren: — 

“‘Quick was the little Maid’s reply, 

O master! we are seven!’ 

I learned it to speak in school, but the scholars were 
hateful and laughed. Hannah is the oldest, I come next, 
then John, then Jenny, then Mark, then Fanny, then 
Mira.” 

“Well, that is a big family!” 

“Far too big, everybody says,” replied Rebecca 
with an unexpected and thoroughly grown-up candor 
that induced Mr. Cobb to murmur, “I swan!” and 
insert more tobacco in his left cheek. 

“They’re dear, but such a bother, and cost so much 
to feed, you see,” she rippled on. “Hannah and I 
have n’t done anything but put babies to bed at night 
and take them up in the morning for years and years. 
But it’s finished, that’s one comfort, and we’ll have a 
490 


REBECCA’S JOURNEY 

lovely time when we ’re all grown up and the mortgage 
is paid off.” 

“All finished? Oh, you mean you’ve come away?” 

“No, I mean they’re all over and done with; our 
family’s finished. Mother says so, and she always 
keeps her promises. There has n’t been any since Mira, 
and she’s three. She was born the day father died. 
Aunt Miranda wanted Hannah to come to Riverboro 
instead of me, but mother could n’t spare her; she 
takes hold of housework better than I do, Hannah does. 
I told mother last night if there was likely to be any 
more children while I was away I ’d have to be sent for, 
for when there’s a baby it always takes Hannah and 
me both, for mother has the cooking and the farm.” 

“Oh, you live on a farm, do ye? Where is it? — 
near to where you got on?” 

“Near? Why, it must be thousands of miles! We 
came from Temperance in the cars. Then we drove 
a long ways to Cousin Ann’s and went to bed. Then 
we got up and drove ever so far to Maplewood, where 
the stage was. Our farm is away off from everywheres, 
but our school and meetinghouse is at Temperance, 
and that’s only two miles. Sitting up here with you is 
most as good as climbing the meetinghouse steeple. 
I know a boy who’s been up on our steeple. He said 
the people and cows looked like flies. We have n’t 
met any people yet, but I’m kind of disappointed in 
the cows; — they don’t look so little as I hoped they 
would; still (brightening) they don’t look quite as 
big as if we were down side of them, do they? Boys 
always do the nice splendid things, and girls can only 
491 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


do the nasty dull ones that get left over. They can’t 
climb so high, or go so far, or stay out so late, or run 
so fast, or anything.” 

Mr. Cobb wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and 
gasped. He had a feeling that he was being hurried 
from peak to peak of a mountain range without time 
to take a good breath in between. 

“I can’t seem to locate your farm,” he said, “though 
I ’ve been to Temperance and used to live up that way. 
What’s your folks’ name?” 

“Randall. My mother’s name is Aurelia Randall; 
our names are Hannah Lucy Randall, Rebecca Rowena 
Randall, John Halifax Randall, Jenny Lind Randall, 
Marquis Randall, Fanny Ellsler Randall, and Miranda 
Randall. Mother named half of us and father the other 
half, but we did n’t come out even, so they both 
thought it would be nice to name Mira after Aunt 
Miranda in Riverboro; they hoped it might do some 
good, but it did n’t, and now we call her Mira. We 
are all named after somebody in particular. Hannah 
is “Hannah at the Window Binding Shoes,” and I 
am taken out of ‘ Ivanhoe ’ ; John Halifax was a gentle- 
man in a book; Mark is after his uncle Marquis de 
Lafayette that died a twin. (Twins very often don’t 
live to grow up, and triplets almost never — did you 
know that, Mr. Cobb?) We don’t call him Marquis, 
only Mark. Jenny is named for a singer and Fanny for 
a beautiful dancer, but mother says they’re both mis- 
fits, for Jenny can’t carry a tune and Fanny ’s kind of 
stiff -legged. Mother would like to call them Jane and 
Frances and give up their middle names, but she says 
492 


REBECCA’S JOURNEY 


it would n’t be fair to father. She says we must always 
stand up for father, because everything was against 
him, and he would n’t have died if he had n’t had such 
bad luck. I think that’s all there is to tell about 
us,” she finished seriously. 

“Land o* Liberty! I should think it was enough,” 
ejaculated Mr. Cobb. “There wa’n’t many names left 
when your mother got through choosin’! You’ve got 
a powerful good memory! I guess it ain’t no trouble 
for you to learn your lessons, is it?” 

“Not much; the trouble is to get the shoes to go and 
learn ’em. These are spandy new I ’ve got on, and they 
have to last six months. Mother always says to save 
my shoes. There don’t seem to be any way of saving 
shoes but taking ’em off and going barefoot; but I can’t 
do that in Riverboro without shaming Aunt Mirandy. 
I ’m going to school right along now when I ’m living 
with Aunt Mirandy, and in two years I’m going to 
the seminary at Wareham; mother says it ought to 
be the making of me! I ’m going to be a painter like 
Miss Ross when I get through school. At any rate, 
that’s what I think I’m going to be. Mother thinks 
I’d better teach.” 

“Your farm ain’t the old Hobbs place, is it?” 

“No, it’s just Randall’s Farm. At least that’s 
what mother calls it. I call it Sunnybrook Farm.” 

“I guess it don’t make no difference what you call 
it so long as you know where it is,” remarked Mr. 
Cobb sententiously. 

Rebecca turned the full light of her eyes upon him 
reproachfully, almost severely, as she answered: — 
493 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“Oh! don’t say that, and be like all the rest! It 
does make a difference what you call things. When 
I say Randall’s Farm, do you see how it looks?” 

“No, I can’t say I do,” responded Mr. Cobb un- 
easily. 

“Now when I say Sunnybrook Farm, what does it 
make you think of?” 

Mr. Cobb felt like a fish removed from his native ele- 
ment and left panting on the sand; there was no evad- 
ing the awful responsibility of a reply, for Rebecca’s 
eyes were searchlights, that pierced the fiction of his 
brain and perceived the bald spot on the back of his 
head. 

“I s’pose there’s a brook somewheres near it,” he 
said timorously. 

Rebecca looked disappointed but not quite dis- 
heartened. “That’s pretty good,” she said encourag- 
ingly. “You’re warm but not hot; there ’s a brook, 
but not a common brook. It has young trees and baby 
bushes on each side of it, and it ’s a shallow chattering 
little brook with a white sandy bottom and lots of little 
shiny pebbles. Whenever there’s a bit of sunshine the 
brook catches it, and it ’s always full of sparkles the 
livelong day. Don’t your stomach feel hollow? Mine 
does ! I was so ’fraid I ’d miss the stage I could n’t eat 
any breakfast.” 

“You ’d better have your lunch, then. I don’t eat 
nothin’ till I get to Milltown; then I get a piece o’ 
pie and cup o’ coffee.” 

“I wish I could see Milltown. I suppose it’s bigger 
and grander even than Wareham; more like Paris? 

494 


REBECCA’S JOURNEY 

Miss Ross told me about Paris; she bought my pink 
sunshade there and my bead purse. You see how it 
opens with a snap? I ’ve twenty cents in it, and it’s 
got to last three months, for stamps and paper and 
ink. Mother says Aunt Mirandy won’t want to buy 
things like those when she’s feeding and clothing me 
and paying for my schoolbooks.” 

“Paris ain’t no great,” said Mr. Cobb disparagingly. 
“It’s the dullest place in the State o’ Maine. I ’ve 
druv there many a time.” 

Again Rebecca was obliged to reprove Mr. Cobb, 
tacitly and quietly, but none the less surely, though 
the reproof was dealt with one glance, quickly sent 
and as quickly withdrawn. 

“Paris is the capital of France, and you have to go 
to it on a boat,” she said instructively. “It ’s in my 
geography, and it says: ‘The French are a gay and 
polite people, fond of dancing and light wines.’ I 
asked the teacher what light wines were, and he thought 
it was something like new cider, or maybe ginger pop. 
I can see Paris as plain as day by just shutting my eyes. 
The beautiful ladies are always gayly dancing around 
with pink sunshades and bead purses, and the grand 
gentlemen are politely dancing and drinking ginger pop. 
But you can see Milltown most every day with your 
eyes wide open,” Rebecca said wistfully. 

“Milltown ain’t no great, neither,” replied Mr. 
Cobb, with the air of having visited all the cities of 
the earth and found them as naught. “Now you watch 
me heave this newspaper right onto Mis’ Brown’s 
doorstep.” ^ 


495 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Piff ! and the packet landed exactly as it was intended, 
on the corn husk mat in front of the screen door. 

“Oh, how splendid that was!” cried Rebecca with 
enthusiasm. “Just like the knife thrower Mark saw 
at the circus. I wish there was a long, long row of 
houses each with a corn husk mat and a screen door 
in the middle, and a newspaper to throw on every 
one!” 

“I might fail on some of ’em, you know,” said Mr. 
Cobb, beaming with modest pride. “If your Aunt 
Mirandy ’ll let you, I ’ll take you down to Milltown 
some day this summer when the stage ain’t full.” 

A thrill of delicious excitement ran through Re- 
becca’s frame, from her new shoes up, up to the leg- 
horn cap and down the black braid. She pressed Mr. 
Cobb’s knee ardently and said in a voice choking with 
tears of joy and astonishment, “Oh, it can’t be true, 
it can’t; to think I should see Milltown. It ’s like having 
a fairy godmother who asks you your wish and then 
gives it to you! Did you ever read ‘Cinderella,’ or 
‘The Yellow Dwarf,’ or ‘The Enchanted Frog,’ or 
‘The Fair One with Golden Locks?”’ 

“No,” said Mr. Cobb cautiously, after a moment’s 
reflection. “I don’t seem to think I ever did read jest 
those partic’lar ones. Where ’d you get a chance at 
so much readin’?” 

“Oh, I ’ve read lots of books,” answered Rebecca 
casually. “Father’s, and Miss Ross’s and all the dif’- 
rent school teachers’, and all in the Sunday-school 
library. I’ve read ‘The Lamplighter,’ and ‘Scottish 
Chiefs,’ and ‘Ivanhoe,’ and ‘The Heir of Redclyffe,’ 
496 


REBECCA’S JOURNEY 

and ‘Cora, the Doctor’s Wife,’ and ‘David Copper- 
field,’ and ‘The Gold of Chickaree,’ and ‘Plutarch’s 
Lives,’ and ‘Thaddeus of Warsaw,’ and ‘Pilgrim’s 
Progress,’ and lots more. — What have you read?” 

“I’ve never happened to read those partic’lar books; 
but land! I’ve read a sight in my time! Nowadays, 
I ’m so drove I get along with the Almanac, the 
‘Weekly Argus,’ and the ‘Maine State Agriculturist.’ 
— There’s the river again; this is the last long hill, and 
when we get to the top of it we ’ll see the chimbleys of 
Riverboro in the distance. ’T ain’t fur. I live ’bout 
half a mile beyond the brick house myself.” 

Rebecca’s hand stirred nervously in her lap and she 
moved in her seat. “I did n’t think I was going to be 
afraid,” she said almost under her breath; “but I 
guess I am, just a little mite — when you say it ’s 
coming so near.” 

“Would you go back?” asked Mr. Cobb curiously. 

She flashed him an intrepid look and then said 
proudly, “ I ’d never go back — I might be frightened, 
but I ’d be ashamed to run. Going to Aunt Mirandy ’s 
is like going down cellar in the dark. There might be 
ogres and giants under the stairs — but, as I tell 
Hannah, there might be elves and fairies and enchanted 
frogs ! — Is there a main street to the village, like that 
in Wareham?” 

“I s’pose you might call it a main street, an’ your 
Aunt Sawyer lives on it, but there ain’t no stores nor 
mills, an’ it’s an awful one-horse village! You have 
to go ’cross the river an’ get on to our side if you want 
to see anything goin’ on.” 

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“I ’m almost sorry,” she sighed, “because it would be 
so grand to drive down a real main street, sitting high 
up like this behind two splendid horses, with my pink 
sunshade up, and everybody in town wondering who 
the bunch of lilacs and the hair trunk belongs to. It 
would be just like the beautiful lady in the parade. 
Last summer the circus came to Temperance, and they 
had a procession in the morning. Mother let us all 
walk in and wheel Mira in the baby carriage, because 
we could n’t afford to go to the circus in the afternoon. 
And there were lovely horses and animals in cages, 
and clowns on horseback; and at the very end came a 
little red and gold chariot drawn by two ponies, and 
in it, sitting on a velvet cushion, was the snake charmer, 
all dressed in satin and spangles. She was so beautiful 
beyond compare, M>. Cobb, that you had to swallow 
lumps in your throat when you looked at her, and little 
cold feelings crept up and down your back. Don’t 
you know how I mean? Did n’t you ever see anybody 
that made you feel like that?” 

Mr. Cobb was more distinctly uncomfortable at this 
moment than he had been at any one time during the 
eventful morning, but he evaded the point dexterously 
by saying, “There ain’t no harm, as I can see, in our 
makin’ the grand entry in the biggest style we can. 
I ’ll take the Whip out, set up straight, an’ drive fast; 
you hold your bo’quet in your lap, an’ open your little 
red parasol, an’ we’ll jest make the natives stare!” 

The child’s face was radiant for a moment, but the 
glow faded just as quickly as she said, “I forgot — 
mother put me inside, and maybe she ’d want me to 
498 


REBECCA’S JOURNEY 

be there when I got to Aunt Mirandy’s. Maybe I’d 
be more genteel inside, and then I would n’t have to 
be jumped down and my clothes fly up, but could open 
the door and step down like a lady passenger. Would 
you please stop a minute, Mr. Cobb, and let me 
change?” 

The stage driver good-naturedly pulled up his horses, 
lifted the excited little creature down, opened the 
door, and helped her in, putting the lilacs and the 
pink sunshade beside her. 

“We ’ve had a great trip,” he said, “and we ’ve got 
real well acquainted, have n’t we? — You won’t for- 
get about Milltown?” 

“Never!” she exclaimed fervently; “and you ’re sure 
you won’t, either?” 

“Never! Cross my heart!” vowed Mr. Cobb sol- 
emnly, as he remounted his perch; and as the stage 
rumbled down the village street between the green 
maples, those who looked from their windows saw a 
little brown elf in buff calico sitting primly on the back 
seat holding a great bouquet tightly in one hand and 
a pink parasol in the other. Had they been farsighted 
enough they might have seen, when the stage turned 
into the side dooryard of the old brick house, a calico 
yoke rising and falling tempestuously over the beating 
heart beneath, the red color coming and going in two 
pale cheeks, and a mist of tears swimming in two 
brilliant dark eyes. 

Rebecca’s journey had ended. 

“There’s the stage turnin’ into the Sawyer girls’ 
dooryard,” said Mrs. Perkins to her husband. “That 
499 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


must be the niece from up Temperance way. It seems 
they wrote to Aurelia and invited Hannah, the oldest, 
but Aurelia said she could spare Rebecca better, if 
’t was all the same to Mirandy ’n’ Jane; so it’s Rebecca 
that ’s come. She’ll be good comp’ny for our Emma 
Jane, but I don’t believe they ’ll keep her three 
months! She looks black as an Injun what I can see 
of her; black and kind of up-an-comin’. They used to 
say that one o’ the Randalls married a Spanish woman, 
somebody that was teachin’ music and languages at 
a boardin’ school. Lorenzo was dark complected, you 
remember, and this child is, too. Well, I don’t know 
as Spanish blood is any real disgrace, not if it ’s a good 
ways back and the woman was respectable.” 


REBECCA INVITES COMPANY 

By Kate Douglas Wig gin 

T HE Aid Society had called its meeting for a cer- 
tain Wednesday in March of the year in which 
Rebecca ended her Riverboro school days and began 
her studies at Wareham. It was a raw, blustering day, 
snow on the ground and a look in the sky of more to 
follow. Both Miranda and Jane had taken cold and 
decided that they could not leave the house in such 
weather, and this deflection from the path of duty 
worried Miranda, since she was an officer of the society. 
After making the breakfast table sufficiently uncom- 
fortable and wishing plaintively that Jane would n’t 
always insist on being sick at the same time she was, 
she decided that Rebecca must go to the meeting in 
their stead. “You’ll be better than nobody, Rebecca/’ 
she said flatteringly; “your Aunt Jane shall write an 
excuse from afternoon school for you; you can wear 
your rubber boots and come home by the way of the 
meetin’ house. This Mr. Burch, if I remember right, 
used to know your grandfather Sawyer, and stayed 
here once when he was candidatin’. He’ll mebbe look 
for us there, and you just go and represent the family, 
an’ give him our respects. Be careful how you be- 
have. Bow your head in prayer; sing all the hymns, 
but not too loud and bold; ask after Mis’ Strout’s boy; 
501 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


tell everybody what awful colds we’ve got; if you 
see a good chance, take your pocket handkerchief and 
wipe the dust off the melodeon before the meetin’ 
begins, and get twenty-five cents out of the sittin’ 
room match-box in case there should be a collection.” 

Rebecca willingly assented. Anything interested 
her, even a village missionary meeting, and the idea 
of representing the family was rather intoxicating. 

The service was held in the Sunday-school room, 
and although the Reverend Mr. Burch was on the plat- 
form when Rebecca entered, there were only a dozen 
persons present. Feeling a little shy and considerably 
too young for this assemblage, Rebecca sought the 
shelter of a friendly face, and seeing Mrs. Robinson in 
one of the side seats near the front, she walked up the 
aisle and sat beside her. 

“Both my aunts had bad colds,” she said softly, 
“and sent me to represent the family.” 

“That ’s Mrs. Burch ’on the platform with her 
husband,” whispered Mrs. Robinson, “She’s awful 
tanned up, ain’t she? If you’re goin’ to save souls 
seems like you hev’ to part with your complexion. 
Eudoxy Morton ain’t come yet; I hope to the land 
she will, or Mis’ Deacon Milliken’ll pitch the tunes 
where we can’t reach ’em with a ladder; can’t you 
pitch, afore she gits her breath and clears her throat?” 

Mrs. Burch was a slim, frail little woman with dark 
hair, a broad low forehead, and patient mouth. She 
was dressed in a well-worn black silk, and looked so 
tired that Rebecca’s heart went out to her. 

“They’re poor as Job’s turkey,” whispered Mrs. 

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REBECCA INVITES COMPANY 

Robinson; “but if you give ’em anything they’d turn 
right round and give it to the heathen. His congrega- 
tion up to Parsonsfield clubbed together and give him 
that gold watch he carries; I s’pose he’d ’a’ handed 
that over too, only heathens always tell time by the sun 
’n’ don’t need watches. Eudoxy ain’t cornin’; now for 
massy’s sake, Rebecca, do git ahead of Mis’ Deacon 
Milliken and pitch real low.” 

The meeting began with prayer and then the 
Reverend Mr. Burch announced, to the tune of “Men- 
don”: — 

“Church of our God! arise and shine. 

Bright with the beams of truth divine; 

Then shall thy radiance stream afar. 

Wide as the heathen nations are. 

“ Gentiles and kings thy light shall view. 

And shall admire and love thee too; 

They come, like clouds across the sky. 

As doves that to their windows fly.” 

“Is there any one present who will assist us at the 
instrument?” he asked unexpectedly. 

Everybody looked at everybody else, and nobody 
moved; then there came a voice out of a far corner say- 
ing informally, “Rebecca, why don’t you?” It was 
Mrs. Cobb. Rebecca could have played “Mendon” 
in the dark, so she went to the melodeon and did so 
without any ado, no member of her family being pres- 
ent to give her self-consciousness. 

The talk that ensued was much the usual sort of 
thing. Mr. Burch made impassioned appeals for the 
spreading of the gospel, and added his entreaties that all 
who were prevented from visiting in person the peoples 
503 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


who sat in darkness should contribute liberally to the > 
support of others who could. But he did more than this. 
He was a pleasant, earnest speaker, and he interwove 
his discourse with stories of life in a foreign land — 
of the manners, the customs, the speech, the point of 
view; even giving glimpses of the daily round, the 
common task, of his own household, the work of his 
devoted helpmate and their little group of children, 
all born under Syrian skies. 

Rebecca sat entranced, having been given the key 
of another world. Riverboro had faded; the Sunday- 
school room, with Mrs. Robinson’s red plaid shawl, 
and Deacon Milliken’s wig, on crooked, the bare 
benches and torn hymn books, the hanging texts and 
maps, were no longer visible, and she saw blue skies 
and burning stars, white turbans and gay colors; Mr. 
Burch had not said so, but perhaps there were mosques 
and temples and minarets and date palms. What 
stories they must know, those children born under 
Syrian skies! Then she was called upon to play “Jesus 
shall reign where’er the sun.” 

The contribution box was passed and Mr. Burch 
prayed. As he opened his eyes and gave out the last 
hymn he looked at the handful of people, at the scat- 
tered pennies and dimes in the contribution box, and 
reflected that his mission was not only to gather funds 
for the building of his church, but to keep alive, in 
all these remote and lonely neighborhoods, that love 
for the cause which was its only hope in the years to 
come. 

“If any of the sisters will provide entertainment,” 
504 


REBECCA INVITES COMPANY 

he said, “Mrs. Burch and I will remain among you to- 
night and to-morrow. In that event we could hold a 
parlor meeting. My wife and one of my children would 
wear the native costume, we would display some speci- 
mens of Syrian handiwork, and give an account of our 
educational methods with the children. These informal 
parlor meetings, admitting of questions or conver- 
sation, are often the means of interesting those not 
commonly found at church services; so I repeat, if any 
member of the congregation desires it and offers her 
hospitality, we will gladly stay and tell you more of 
the Lord’s work.” 

A pall of silence settled over the little assembly. 
There was some cogent reason why every “sister” 
there was disinclined for company. Some had no spare 
room, some had a larder less well stocked than usual, 
some had sickness in the family, some were “unequally 
yoked together with unbelievers” who disliked strange 
ministers. Mrs. Burch’s thin hands fingered her 
black silk nervously. “Would no one speak!” thought 
Rebecca, her heart fluttering with sympathy. Mrs. 
Robinson leaned over and whispered significantly, 
“The missionaries always used to be entertained at the 
brick house; your grandfather never would let ’em 
sleep anywheres else when he was alive.” She meant 
this for a stab at Miss Miranda’s parsimony, remem- 
bering the four spare chambers, closed from January 
to December; but Rebecca thought it was intended as 
a suggestion. If it had been a former custom, perhaps 
her aunts would want her to do the right thing; for what 
else was she representing the family? So, delighted that 
505 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

duty lay in so pleasant a direction, she rose from her 
seat and said in the pretty voice and with the quaint 
manner that so separated her from all the other young 
people in the village, “My aunts, Miss Miranda and 
Miss Jane Sawyer, would be very happy to have you 
visit them at the brick house, as the ministers always 
used to do when their father was alive. They sent their 
respects by me.” The “respects” might have been the 
freedom of the city, or an equestrian statue, when 
presented in this way, and the aunts would have 
shuddered could they have foreseen the manner of 
delivery; but it was vastly impressive to the audience, 
who concluded that Mirandy Sawyer must be making 
her way uncommonly fast to mansions in the skies, 
else what meant this abrupt change of heart? 

Mr. Burch bowed courteously, accepted the invita- 
tion “in the same spirit in which it was offered,” and 
asked Brother Milliken to lead in prayer. 

If the Eternal Ear could ever tire it would have 
ceased long ere this to listen to Deacon Milliken, who 
had wafted to the throne of grace the same prayer, with 
very slight variations, for forty years. Mrs. Perkins 
followed; she had several petitions at her command, 
good sincere ones too, but a little cut and dried, made 
of scripture texts laboriously woven together. Rebecca 
wondered why she always ended, at the most peaceful 
seasons, with the form, “Do Thou be with us, God of 
Battles, while we strive onward like Christian soldiers 
marching as to war;” but everything sounded real to 
her to-day; she was in a devout mood, and many things 
Mr. Burch had said had moved her strangely. As she 
506 


REBECCA INVITES COMPANY 

lifted her head the minister looked directly at her 
and said, “Will our young sister close the service by 
leading us in prayer?” 

Every drop of blood in Rebecca’s body seemed to 
stand still, and her heart almost stopped beating. 
Mrs. Cobb’s excited breathing could be heard dis- 
tinctly in the silence. There was nothing extraordinary 
in Mr. Burch’s request. In his journeyings among 
country congregations he was constantly in the habit 
of meeting young members who had “experienced re- 
ligion” and joined the church when nine or ten years 
old. Rebecca was now thirteen; she had played the 
melodeon, led the singing, delivered her aunts’ invita- 
tion with an air of great worldly wisdom, and he, con- 
cluding that she must be a youthful pillar of the church, 
called upon her with the utmost simplicity. 

Rebecca’s plight was pathetic. How could she refuse; 
how could she explain she was not a “member;” how 
could she pray before all those elderly women! John 
Rogers at the stake hardly suffered more than this poor 
child for the moment as she rose to her feet, forgetting 
that ladies prayed sitting, while deacons stood in 
prayer. Her mind was a maze of pictures that the 
Reverend Mr. Burch had flung on the screen. She 
knew the conventional phraseology, of course; what 
New England child, accustomed to Wednesday even- 
ing meetings, does not? But her own secret prayers 
were different. However, she began slowly and trem- 
ulously: — • 

“Our Father who art in Heaven, . . . Thou art 
God in Syria just the same as in Maine; . . . over there 
507 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


to-day are blue skies and yellow stars and burning 
suns . . . the great trees are waving in the warm air, 
while here the snow lies thick under our feet, . . . but 
no distance is too far for God to travel and so He is 
with us here as He is with them there, . . . and our 
thoughts rise to him ‘as doves that to their windows 

fly.’ • • • 

“We cannot all be missionaries, teaching people 
to be good, . . . some of us have not learned yet how 
to be good ourselves, but if thy kingdom is to come 
and thy will is to be done on earth as it is in heaven, 
everybody must try and everybody must help, . . . 
those who are old and tired and those who are young 
and strong. . . . The little children of whom we have 
heard, those born under Syrian skies, have strange and 
interesting work to do for Thee, and some of us would 
like to travel in far lands and do wonderful brave 
things for the heathen and gently take away their 
idols of wood and stone. But perhaps we have to stay 
at home and do what is given us to do . . . sometimes 
even things we dislike, . . . but that must be what it 
means in the hymn we sang, when it talked about the 
sweet perfume that rises with every morning sacrifice. 
. . . This is the way that God teaches us to be meek 
and patient, and the thought that He has willed it so 
should rob us of our fears and help us bear the years. 
Amen.” 

Poor little ignorant, fantastic child! Her petition 
was simply a succession of lines from the various hymns, 
and images the minister had used in his sermon, but 
she had her own way of recombining and applying 
508 


REBECCA INVITES COMPANY 

these things, even of using them in a new connection, 
so that they had a curious effect of belonging to her. 
The words of some people might generally be written 
with a minus sign after them, the minus meaning that 
the personality of the speaker subtracted from, rather 
than added to, their weight; but Rebecca’s words 
might always have borne the plus sign. 

The “Amen” said, she sat down, or presumed she 
sat down, on what she believed to be a bench, and there 
was a benediction. In a moment or two, when the room 
ceased spinning, she went up to Mrs. Burch, who 
kissed her affectionately and said, “My dear, how glad 
I am that we are going to stay with you. Will half- 
past five be too late for us to come? It is three now, 
and we have to go to the station for our valise and 
for our children. We left them there, being uncertain 
whether we should go back or stop here.” 

Rebecca said that half-past five was their supper 
hour, and then accepted an invitation to drive home 
with Mrs. Cobb. Her face was flushed and her lip 
quivered in a way that Aunt Sarah had learned to 
know, so the homeward drive was taken almost in 
silence. The bleak wind and Aunt Sarah’s quieting 
presence brought her back to herself, however, and 
she entered the brick house cheerily. Being too full 
of news to wait in the side entry to take off her rubber 
boots, she carefully lifted a braided rug into the 
sitting room and stood on that while she opened her 
budget. 

“There are your shoes warming by the fire,” said 
Aunt Jane. “Slip them right on while you talk.” 

509 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“It was a very small meeting, Aunt Miranda,” began 
Rebecca, “and the missionary and his wife are lovely 
people, and they are coming here to stay all night and 
to-morrow with you. I hope you won’t mind.” 

“Coming here!” exclaimed Miranda, letting her 
knitting fall in her lap, and taking her spectacles off, 
as she always did in moments of extreme excitement. 
“Did they invite themselves?” 

“No,” Rebecca answered, “I had to invite them for 
you; but I thought you’d like to have such interesting 
company. It was this way — ” 

“Stop your explainin’, and tell me first when they ’ll 
be here. Right away?” 

“No, not for two hours — about half -past five.” 

“Then you can explain, if you can, who gave you 
any authority to invite a passel of strangers to stop 
here over night, when you know we ain’t had any com- 
pany for twenty years, and don’t intend to have any 
for another twenty — or at any rate while I ’m the 
head of the house.” 

“Don’t blame her, Miranda, till you ’ve heard her 
story,” said Jane. “It was in my mind right along, 
if we went to the meeting, some such thing might hap- 
pen, on account of Mr. Burch knowing father.” 

“The meeting was a small one,” began Rebecca. 
“I gave all your messages, and everybody was disap- 
pointed you could n’t come, for the president was n’t 
there, and Mrs. Matthews took the chair, which was 
a pity, for the seat was n’t nearly big enough for her, 
and she reminded me of a line in a hymn we sang, 
‘Wide as the heathen nations are,’ and she wore that 
510 


REBECCA INVITES COMPANY 

kind of a beaver garden-hat that always gets on one 
side. And Mr. Burch talked beautifully about the 
Syrian heathen, and the singing went real well, and 
there looked to be about forty cents in the basket 
that was passed on our side. And that would n’t 
save even a heathen baby, would it? Then Mr. 
Burch said, if any sister would offer entertainment, 
they would pass the night, and have a parlor meeting in 
Riverboro to-morrow, with Mrs. Burch in Syrian cos- 
tume, and lovely foreign things to show. Then he 
waited and waited, and nobody said a word. I was so 
mortified I did n’t know what to do. And then he 
repeated what he said, and explained why he wanted 
to stay, and you could see he thought it was his duty. 
Just then Mrs. Robinson whispered to me and said 
the missionaries always used to go to the brick house 
when grandfather was alive, and that he never would 
let them sleep anywhere else. I did n’t know you had 
stopped having them, because no traveling ministers 
have been here, except just for a Sunday morning, 
since I came to Riverboro. So I thought I ought to 
invite them, as you were n’t there to do it for yourself, 
and you told rpe to represent the family.” 

“What did you do — go up and introduce yourself 
as folks was goin’ out?” 

“No; I stood right up in meeting. I had to, for Mr. 
Burch’s feelings were getting hurt at nobody’s speak- 
ing. So I said, ‘My aunts, Miss Miranda and Miss 
Jane Sawyer, would be happy to have you visit at the 
brick house, just as the missionaries always did when 
their father was alive, and they sent their respects by 
511 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

me.’ Then I sat down; and Mr. Burch prayed for 
grandfather, and called him a man of God, and thanked 
our Heavenly Father that his spirit was still alive in 
his descendants (that was you), and that the good old 
house where so many of the brethren had been cheered 
and helped, and from which so many had gone out 
strengthened for the fight, was still hospitably open 
for the stranger and wayfarer.” 

Sometimes, when the heavenly bodies are in just 
the right conjunction, nature seems to be the most 
perfect art. The word or the deed coming straight 
from the heart, without any thought of effect, seems 
inspired. 

A certain gateway in Miranda Sawyer’s soul had 
been closed for years; not all at once had it been done, 
but gradually, and without her full knowledge. If 
Rebecca had plotted for days, and with the utmost cun- 
ning, she could not have effected an entrance into 
that forbidden country, and now, unknown to both of 
them, the gate swung on its stiff and rusty hinges, and 
the favoring wind of opportunity opened it wider and 
wider as time went on. All things had worked together 
amazingly for good. The memory of old days had 
been evoked, and the daily life of a pious and ven- 
erated father called to mind; the Sawyer name had 
been publicly dignified and praised; Rebecca had com- 
ported herself as the granddaughter of Deacon Israel 
Sawyer should, and showed conclusively that she was 
not “all Randall,” as had been supposed. Miranda 
was rather mollified by and pleased with the turn of 
events, although she did not intend to show it, or give 
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REBECCA INVITES COMPANY 

anybody any reason to expect that this expression of 
hospitality was to serve for a precedent on any subse- 
quent occasion. 

“Well, I see you did only what you was obliged to 
do, Rebecca,” she said, “and you worded your invita- 
tion as nice as anybody could have done. I wish your 
Aunt Jane and me was n’t both so worthless with these 
colds; but it only shows the good of havin’ a clean 
house, with every room in order, whether open or shut, 
and enough victuals cooked so ’t you can’t be sur- 
prised and belittled by anybody, whatever happens. 
There was half a dozen there that might have enter- 
tained the Burches as easy as not, if they had n’t ’a’ 
been too mean or lazy. Why did n’t your missionaries 
come right along with you?” 

, “They had to go to the station for their valise and 
their children.” 

' “Are there children?” groaned Miranda. 

“Yes, Aunt Miranda, all born under Syrian skies.” 

“Syrian grandmother!” ejaculated Miranda (and 
it was not a fact). “How many?” 

“ I did n’t think to ask; but I will get two rooms ready, 
and if there are any over I’ll take ’em into my bed,” 
said Rebecca, secretly hoping that this would be the 
case. “Now, as you’re both half sick, couldn’t you 
trust me just once to get ready for the company? 
You can come up when I call. Will you?” 

“I believe I will,” sighed Miranda reluctantly. “I’ll 
lay down side o’ Jane in our bedroom and see if I 
can get strength to cook supper. It’s half past three 
— don’t you let me lay a minute past five. I kep’ a 
513 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


good fire in the kitchen stove. I don’t know. I’m sure, 
why I should have baked a pot o’ beans in the middle 
of the week, but they’ll come in handy. Father used 
to say there was nothing that went right to the spot 
with returned missionaries like pork ’n’ beans ’n’ 
brown bread. Fix up the two south chambers, Re- 
becca.” 

Rebecca, given a free hand for the only time in her 
life, dashed upstairs like a whirlwind. Every room in 
the brick house was as neat as wax, and she had only 
to pull up the shades, go over the floors with a whisk 
broom, and dust the furniture. The aunts could hear 
her scurrying to and fro, beating up pillows and feather 
beds, flapping towels, jingling crockery, singing mean- 
while in her clear voice: — 

“In vain with lavish kindness 
The gifts of God are strown; 

The heathen in his blindness 
Bows down to wood and stone.” 

She had grown to be a handy little creature, and 
tasks she was capable of doing at all she did like a flash, 
so that when she called her aunts at five o’clock to pass 
judgment, she had accomplished wonders. There were 
fresh towels on bureaus and washstands, the beds 
were fair and smooth, the pitchers were filled, and soap 
and matches were laid out; newspaper, kindling, and 
wood were in the boxes, and a large stick burned slowly 
in each air-tight stove. “I thought I’d better just take 
the chill off,” she explained, “as they’re right from 
Syria; and that reminds me, I must look it up in the 
geography before they get here.” 

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REBECCA INVITES COMPANY 

There was nothing to disapprove, so the two sisters 
went downstairs to make some slight changes in their 
dress. As they passed the parlor door Miranda thought 
she heard a crackle and looked in. The shades were 
up, there was a cheerful blaze in the open stove in the 
front parlor, and a fire laid on the hearth in the back 
room. Rebecca’s own lamp, her second Christmas 
present from Mr. Aladdin, stood on a marble-topped 
table in the corner, the light that came softly through 
its rose-colored shade transforming the stiff and gloomy 
ugliness of the room into a place where one could sit 
and love one’s neighbor. 

“For massy’s sake, Rebecca,” called Miss Miranda 
up the stairs, “did you think we’d better open the 
parlor? ” 

Rebecca came out on the landing braiding her hair. 

“We did on Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I 
thought this was about as great an occasion,” she said. 
“I moved the wax flowers off the mantelpiece so they 
would n’t melt, and put the shells, the coral, and the 
green stuffed bird on top of the what-not, so the chil- 
dren would n’t ask to play with them. Brother Milli- 
ken ’s coming over to see Mr. Burch about business, and 
I should n’t wonder if Brother and Sister Cobb hap- 
pened in. Don’t go down cellar, I’ll be there in a min- 
ute to do the running.” 

Miranda and Jane exchanged glances. 

“Ain’t she the beatin’est creetur that ever was 
born int’ the world!” exclaimed Miranda; “but she 
can turn off work when she’s got a mind to!” 

At quarter past five everything was ready, and the 
515 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


neighbors, those at least who were within sight of the 
brick house (a prominent object in the landscape when 
there were no leaves on the trees), were curious almost 
to desperation. Shades up in both parlors! Shades 
up in the two south bedrooms ! And fires — if human 
vision was to be relied on — fires in about every room. 
If it had not been for the kind offices of a lady who had 
been at the meeting, and who charitably called in at 
one or two houses and explained the reason of all this 
preparation, there would have been no sleep in many 
families. 

The missionary party arrived promptly, and there 
were but two children, seven or eight having been 
left with the brethren in Portland, to diminish traveling 
expenses. Jane escorted them all upstairs, while 
Miranda watched the cooking of the supper; but 
Rebecca promptly took the two little girls away from 
their mother, divested them of their wraps, smoothed 
their hair, and brought them down to the kitchen to 
smell the beans. 

There was a bountiful supper, and the presence of 
the young people robbed it of all possible stiffness. 
Aunt Jane helped clear the table and put away the 
food, while Miranda entertained in the parlor; but 
Rebecca and the infant Burches washed the dishes and 
held high carnival in the kitchen, doing only trifling 
damage — breaking a cup and plate that had been 
cracked before, emptying a silver spoon with some 
dishwater out of the back door (an act never permitted 
at the brick house), and putting coffee grounds in the 
sink. All evidences of crime having been removed by 
516 


REBECCA INVITES COMPANY 

Rebecca, and damages repaired in all possible cases, 
the three entered the parlor, where Mr. and Mrs. Cobb 
and Deacon and Mrs. Milliken had already appeared. 

It was such a pleasant evening! Occasionally they 
left the heathen in his blindness bowing down to wood 
and stone, not for long, but just to give themselves (and 
him) time enough to breathe, and then the Burches 
told strange, beautiful, marvelous things. The two 
smaller children sang together, and Rebecca, at the 
urgent request of Mrs. Burch, seated herself at the 
tinkling old piano and gave “Wild roved an Indian 
girl, bright Alfarata” with considerable spirit and style. 

At eight o’clock she crossed the room, handed a 
palm-leaf fan to her aunt Miranda, ostensibly that she 
might shade her eyes from the lamplight; but it was a 
piece of strategy that gave her an opportunity to 
whisper, “How about cookies?” 

“Do you think it’s worth while?” sibilated Miss 
Miranda in answer. 

“The Perkinses always do.” 

“All right. You know where they be.” 

Rebecca moved quietly towards the door, and the 
young Burches cataracted after her as if they could 
not bear a second’s separation. In five minutes they 
returned, the little ones bearing plates of thin caraway 
wafers — hearts, diamonds, and circles daintily sug- 
ared, and flecked with caraway seed raised in the garden 
behind the house. These were a specialty of Miss 
Jane’s, and Rebecca carried a tray with six tiny crystal 
glasses filled with dandelion wine, for which Miss 
Miranda had been famous in years gone by. Old 
517 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


Deacon Israel had always had it passed, and he had 
bought the glasses himself in Boston. Miranda ad- 
mired them greatly, not only for their beauty but be- 
cause they held so little. Before their advent the 
dandelion wine had been served in sherry glasses. 

As soon as these refreshments — commonly called a 
“eolation” in Riverboro — had been genteelly partaken 
of, Rebecca looked at the clock, rose from her chair in 
the children’s corner, and said cheerfully, “Come! time 
for little missionaries to be in bed ! 99 

Everybody laughed at this, the big missionaries most 
of all, as the young people shook hands and disappeared 
with Rebecca. 


AN UNWILLING GUEST 

By Frank R. Stockton 

O NE day, in the following spring, I was riding home 
from the station with Euphemia — we seldom 
took pleasure drives now, we were so busy on the place 
— and as we reached the house I heard the dog barking 
savagely. He was loose in the little orchard by the 
side of the house. As I drove in, Pomona came rushing 
to the side of the carriage. 

“Man up the tree!” she shouted. 

I helped Euphemia out, left the horse standing by 
the door, and ran to the dog, followed by my wife and 
Pomona. Sure enough, there was a man up the tree, 
and Lord Edward was doing his best to get at him, 
springing wildly at the tree and fairly shaking with 
rage. 

I looked up at the man. He was a thoroughbred 
tramp, burly, dirty, generally unkempt, but, unlike 
most tramps, he looked very much frightened. His 
position, on a high crotch of an apple tree, was not 
altogether comfortable, and although, for the present, 
it was safe, the fellow seemed to have a wavering faith 
in the strength of apple-tree branches, and the moment 
he saw me, he earnestly besought me to take that dog 
away, and let him down. 


519 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 

I made no answer, but turning to Pomona, I asked 
her what this all meant. 

“Why, sir, you see,” said she, “I was in the kitchen 
bakin’ pies, and this fellow must have got over the fence 
at the side of the house, for the dog did n’t see him, and 
the first thing I know’d he was stickin’ his head in the 
window, and he asked me to give him somethin’ to eat. 
And when I said I ’d see in a minute if there was any- 
thing for him, he says to me, ‘Gim me a piece of one 
of them pies’ — pies I ’d just baked and was settin’ 
to cool on the kitchen table! ‘No, sir,’ says I, ‘I’m 
not goin’ to cut one of them pies for you, or any one like 
you.’ ‘All right!’ says he, ‘I ’ll come in and help my- 
self.’ He must have known there was no man about, 
and cornin’ the way he did, he had n’t seen the dog. 
So he come round to the kitchen door, but I shot out 
before he got there and unchained Lord Edward. I 
guess he saw the dog, when he got to the door, and at 
any rate he heard the chain clankin’, and he did n’t 
go in, but just put for the gate. But Lord Edward was 
after him so quick that he had n’t no time to go to no 
gates. It was all he could do to scoot up this tree, and 
if he ’d been a millionth part of a minute later he ’d ’a’ 
been in another world by this time.” 

The man, who had not attempted to interrupt 
Pomona’s speech, now began again to implore me to let 
him down, while Euphemia looked pitifully at him, and 
was about, I think, to intercede with me in his favor, 
but my attention was drawn off from her by the strange 
conduct of the dog. Believing, I suppose, that he might 
leave the tramp for a moment, now that I had arrived, 
520 


AN UNWILLING GUEST 

he had dashed away to another tree, where he was 
barking furiously, standing on his hind legs and clawing 
at the trunk. 

“What ’s the matter over there?” I asked. 

“Oh, that ’s the other fellow, said Pomona. “He ’s 
no harm.” And then, as the tramp made a movement 
as if he would try to come down, and make a rush for 
safety during the absence of the dog, she called out, 
“Here, boy ! here, boy ! ” and in an instant Lord Edward 
was again raging at his post, at the foot of the apple 
tree. 

I was grievously puzzled at all this, and walked over 
to the other tree, followed, as before, by Euphemia and 
Pomona. 

“This one,” said the latter, “is a tree man — ” 

“I should think so,” said I, as I caught sight of a 
person in gray trousers standing among the branches 
of a cherry tree not very far from the kitchen door. 

The tree was not a large one, and the branches 
were not strong enough to allow him to sit down on 
them, although they supported him well enough, as 
he stood close to the trunk just out of reach of Lord 
Edward. 

“This is a very unpleasant position, sir,” said he, 
when I reached the tree. “I simply came into your 
yard, on a matter of business, and finding that raging 
beast attacking a person in a tree, I had barely time to 
get up into this tree myself, before he dashed at me. 
Luckily I was out of his reach; but I very much fear 
I have lost some of my property.” 

“No, he has n’t,” said Pomona. “It was a big book 
52 1 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


he dropped. I picked it up and took it into the house. 
It ’s full of pictures of pears and peaches and flowers. 
I ’ve been looking at it. That ’s how I knew what 
he was. And there was no call for his gittin’ up a tree. 
Lord Edward never would have gone after him if he 
had n’t run as if he had guilt on his soul.” 

“I suppose, then,” said I, addressing the individual 
in the cherry tree, “that you came here to sell me some 
trees.” 

“Yes, sir,” said he quickly, “trees, shrubs, vines, 
evergreens — everything suitable for a gentleman’s 
country villa. I can sell you something quite remark- 
able, sir, in the way of cherry trees — French ones, just 
imported; bear fruit three times the size of anything 
that could be produced on a tree like this. And pears 
— fruit of the finest flavor and enormous size — ” 

“Yes,” said Pomona, “I seen them in the book. 
But they must grow on a ground vine. No tree 
could n’t hold such pears as them.” 

Here Euphemia reproved Pomona’s forwardness, 
and I invited the tree agent to get down out of the 
tree. 

“Thank you, ’’said he, “but not while that dog is 
loose. If you will kindly chain him up, I will get my 
book, and show you specimens of some of the finest 
small fruit in the world, all imported from the first 
nurseries of Europe — the Red-Gold Amber Muscat 
grape — the — ” 

“Oh, please let him down!” said Euphemia, her 
eyes beginning to sparkle. 

I slowly walked toward the tramp tree, revolving 


AN UNWILLING GUEST 

various matters in my mind. We had not spent much 
money on the place during the winter, and we now had 
a small sum which we intended to use for the advantage 
of the farm, but had not yet decided what to do with it. 
It behooved me to be careful. 

I told Pomona to run and get me the dog chain, and 
I stood under the tree, listening, as well as I could, to 
the tree agent talking to Euphemia, and paying no 
attention to the impassioned entreaties of the tramp in 
the crotch above me. When the chain was brought, I 
hooked one end of it in Lord Edward’s collar, and then 
I took a firm grasp of the other. Telling Pomona to 
bring the tree agent’s book from the house, I called to 
that individual to get down from his tree. He promptly 
obeyed, and, taking the book from Pomona, began to 
show the pictures to Euphemia. 

“You had better hurry, sir,” I called out. “I can’t 
hold this dog very long.” And, indeed, Lord Edward 
had made a run toward the agent, which jerked me very 
forcibly in his direction. But a movement by the tramp 
had quickly brought the dog back to his more desired 
victim. 

“If you will just tie up that dog, sir,” said the agent, 
“and come this way, I should like to show you the 
Meltinagua pear — dissolves in the mouth like snow, 
sir; trees will bear next year.” 

“Oh, come look at the Royal Sparkling Ruby 
grape!” cried Euphemia. “It glows in the sun like a 
gem.” 

“Yes,” said the agent, “and fills the air with fra- 
grance during the whole month of September — ” 

523 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“I tell you,” I shouted, “I can’t hold this dog an- 
other minute! The chain is cutting the skin off my 
hands. Run, sir, run! I ’m going to let go!” 

“ Run ! run ! ” cried Pomona. “ Fly for your life ! ” 

The agent now began to be frightened, and shut up 
his book. 

“If you could only see the plates, sir, I ’m sure — ” 

“Are you ready?” I cried, as the dog, excited by 
Pomona’s wild shouts, made a bolt in his direction. 

“Good-day, if I must — ” said the agent, as he hur- 
ried to the gate. 

But there he stopped. 

“There is nothing, sir,” he said, “that would so 
improve your place as a row of the Spitzenberg Sweet- 
scented Balsam fir along this fence. I ’ll sell you three- 
year-old trees — ” 

“He ’s loose!” I shouted, as I dropped the chain. 

In a second the agent was on the other side of the 
gate. Lord Edward made a dash toward him; but, 
stopping suddenly, flew back to the tree of the 
tramp. 

“If you should conclude, sir,” said the tree agent, 
looking over the fence, “to have a row of those firs 
along here — ” 

“My good sir,” said I, “there is no row of firs there 
now, and the fence is not very high. My dog, as you 
see, is very much excited, and I cannot answer for 
the consequences if he takes it into his head to jump 
over.” 

The tree agent turned and walked slowly away. 

“Now, look-a-here,” cried the tramp from the tree, 
524 


AN UNWILLING GUEST 


in the voice of a very ill-used person, ain't you goin’ to 
fasten up that dog, and let me git down?” 

I walked up close to the tree and addressed him. 

“No,” I said, “I am not. When a man comes to my 
place, bullies a young girl who was about to relieve his 
hunger, and then boldly determines to enter my house 
and help himself to my property, I don’t propose to 
fasten up any dog that may happen to be after him. 
If I had another dog, I ’d let him loose, and give this 
faithful beast a rest. You can do as you please. You 
can come down and have it out with the dog, or you can 
stay up there, until I have had my dinner. Then I 
will drive down to the village and bring up the con- 
stable, and deliver you into his hands. We want no 
such fellows as you about.” 

With that, I unhooked the chain from Lord Edward, 
and walked off to put up the horse. The man shouted 
after me, but I paid no attention. I did not feel in a 
good humor with him. 

Euphemia was a good deal disturbed by the occur- 
rences of the afternoon. She was sorry for the man in 
the tree; she was sorry that the agent for the Royal 
Ruby grape had been obliged to go away; and I had a 
good deal of trouble during dinner to make her see 
things in the proper light. But I succeeded at last. 

I did not hurry through dinner, and when we had 
finished, I went to my work at the barn. Tramps are 
not generally pressed for time, and Pomona had been 
told to give our captive something to eat. 

I was just locking the door of the carriage house, 
when Pomona came running to me to tell me that the 
525 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


tramp wanted to see me about something very im- 
portant — just a minute, he said. I put the key into 
my pocket and walked over to the tree. It was now 
almost dark, but I could see that the dog, the tramp, 
and the tree still kept their respective places. 

“Look-a-here,” said the individual in the crotch, 
“you don’t know how dreadful oneasy these limbs gits 
after you ’ve been settin’ up here as long as I have. 
And I don’t want to have nuthin’ to do with no con- 
stables. I ’ll tell you what I ’ll do: if you ’ll chain up 
that dog, and let me go, I ’ll fix things so that you ’ll 
not be troubled no more by tramps.” 

“How will you do that?” I asked. 

“Oh, never you mind,” said he. “I ’ll give you my 
word of honor I ’ll do it. There ’s reg’lar understandin’ 
among us fellers, you know.” 

I considered the matter. The word of honor of a 
fellow such as he was could not be worth much, but the 
merest chance of getting rid of tramps should not be 
neglected. I went in to talk to Euphemia about it, 
although I knew what she would say. I reasoned with 
myself as much as with her. 

“If we put this one fellow in prison for a few weeks,” 
I said, “the benefit is not very great. If we are freed 
from all tramps, for the season, the benefit is very great. 
Shall we try for the greatest good?” 

“Certainly,” said Euphemia; “and his legs must be 
dreadfully stiff.” 

So I went out, and after a struggle of some minutes, 
I chained Lord Edward to a post at a little distance from 
the apple tree. When he was secure, the tramp de- 
526 


AN UNWILLING GUEST 

scended nimbly from his perch, notwithstanding his 
stiff legs, and hurried out of the gate. He stopped to 
make no remarks over the fence. With a wild howl of 
disappointed ambition, Lord Edward threw himself 
after him. But the chain held. 

A lane of moderate length led from our house to the 
main road, and the next day, as we were riding home, I 
noticed, on the trunk of a large tree which stood at the 
corner of the lane and road, a curious mark. I drew 
up to see what it was, but we could not make it out. 
It was a very rude device, cut deeply into the tree, and 
somewhat resembled a square, a circle, a triangle, and 
a cross, with some smaller marks beneath it. I felt 
sure that our tramp had cut it, and that it had some 
significance, which would be understood by the mem- 
bers of his fraternity. 

And it must have been, for no tramps came near us 
all that summer. We were visited by a needy person 
now and then, but by no member of the regular army 
of tramps. 

One afternoon, that fall, I walked home, and at the 
corner of the lane I saw a tramp looking up at the mark 
on the tree, which was still quite distinct. 

“What does that mean?” I said, stepping up to 
him. 

“How do I know?” said the man, “and what do you 
want to know fur?” 

“Just out of curiosity,” I said; “I have often noticed 
it. I think you can tell me what it means, and if you 
will do so, I ’ll give you a dollar.” 

“And keep mum about it?” said the man. 

m 


THE BOOK OF HUMOR 


“Yes,” I replied, taking out the dollar. 

“All right! ” said the tramp. “That sign means that 
the man that lives up this lane is a mean, stingy cuss, 
with a wicked dog, and it ’s no good to go there.” 

I handed him the dollar and went away, perfectly 
satisfied with my reputation. 



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